


we're living at the mercy (of the pain and the fear)

by agent_izhyper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Monster of the Week kind, Nightmares, Samulet feature, Season 3, ghost!sam, main character near-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pain of losing Sam, the feel of his brother dying in his arms, was still too fresh a wound for Dean. So this situation? Pretty damn shitty, even by their standards. He's already lost his brother once; he'd be damned if he let anything happen to him again, so soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're living at the mercy (of the pain and the fear)

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT** : this isn't new. at all. i dont like the fact that i havent posted up a proper fic in months (or, you know, _written_ a proper fic in months) so i figured i'd get one of my fav completed fics that's been lying in my fanficnet account, polish it up, and post it here.  
>  so, heed my warning when i say that the beginning is hella dodgy, and some of the 'angst' is a bit mehh but i was proud of writing this fic three (!!! whoa) years ago and i'm still proud of it now. it's pretty fucking long lol. wish i could write that much these days. *regretful and very sad sigh*
> 
> so yeah. characterisation's on point for early season 3 Winchesters (and Bobby of course), the monster thingy was fun, and whoo freaky nightmares. i've beta'd it so it is a lot less cringe-y than it was originally. 
> 
> enjoy :P
> 
> ( _*waves at aelya* hi yes have a special mention for being that awesome beta for this fic who spurred me on at my low times and gave super awesome pep talks and provided virtual gummy worms xD you rock. this fic would not have existed without you. aww._ )

****

Sam woke abruptly with a groan, as though someone had poked him with a blunt stick. He sat up in his bed, feeling oddly lightheaded, and blinked away the haziness that made the bright motel room swim. The last moments of a vague, dark dream lingered in his mind, strangely pressing, and a frown made its way onto his face as he attempted futilely to grab onto it with an oddly pressing urgency. But all he got was a cold sixth sense telling him something was seriously wrong. He shivered involuntarily at the unbidden flashes of the sinister nightmares that had plagued his dreams for nights now, nightmares that always left him waking up like this.

He could hear the tap running in the bathroom and got up, somewhat surprised when he wasn’t hit by a dizzy spell or anything. He looked up when the door opened and Dean walked out, shooting a quick glance at Sam’s bed while he grabbed his duffel bag and started to hunt through it for something. “Dude, you _still_ asleep? It’s like 10, man, and that coroner told us he’ll only hold the body until noon,” he called out over his shoulder before pulling out his FBI suit.

Sam frowned in confusion and took a step closer to him. “Uh, Dean? I’m right...” he trailed off when Dean turned and, ignoring him, stared hard at Sam’s bed with an eye roll.

“And he tells _me_ off for sleeping in,” he muttered.

“Dean, I’m _here_ ,” Sam tried again, going over to stand in front of him. Dean was looking right _at_ him, but... his gaze seemed to be on the bed still. Sam, now seriously freaked out, started to snap “Quit joking around man, it’s not funny!” but before he could get all the words out of his mouth, Dean sighed and strode forward towards Sam’s bed.

Right through him.

He – walked – _through_ – him.

_Through him!_

A gasp escaped Sam at the cold tingly feeling and he whirled around – only to freeze at the sight he’d missed before.

It was him.

On his bed.

He was _in bed_ , but he was _right here_ , and there were _two of him_ and-

What the _hell_?

Slowly, Sam turned wide eyes to his brother, who had also stopped after – _passing through Sam_ – and was looking around the room curiously. He must have felt something. Sam watched as his gaze returned to the bed – to _his body_ on the bed – and went to, presumably, wake him up.

Sam stared, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Hesitantly, he held up a hand and gazed at it, curious despite himself. It _looked_ solid enough. His eyes trailed back to his still, unresponsive body and he swallowed, feeling sick.

_Was he dead?_

God, he hoped not. But there’d been nothing extraordinary. He hadn’t... he’d just gone to sleep and woken up – well, _not_ woken up, by the looks of it.

And he thought he’d seen it all...

* * *

Dean stopped in his tracks at the suddenly cold feeling that washed over him. He swept narrowed eyes over the room, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. Cold draft from the window, maybe?

He shrugged the thought out of his mind and turned to Sam, reaching over and tapping his shoulder. “C’mon Sleeping Beauty. Get your ass up before I decide to dump ice on you.” He smirked a bit at the fun little scene that played in his mind, but it was short-lived when Sam didn’t even stir.

He frowned, staring at his brother’s oddly still form – sprawled across the bed on his back, limbs splayed everywhere; he was like a giant octopus – minus four limbs. But Sam hardly slept _still_. Hell, Sam was hardly still any time – the kid was fidgety, always pacing, or bouncing a leg, tapping his fingers on the tabletop... writhing and twitching in his sleep, trying to escape the non-stop barrage of nightmares.

So this immobility? Kind of freaking Dean out.

He crouched down and rapped Sam on the face, watching closely for any reaction. “Sam, seriously dude. Not funny.”

 _Nothing_.

Okay. Okay, so... he was... sleeping deeply. Really deeply. Tired? No – he’d turned in early last night, for a change.

_Breathing?_

Dean froze momentarily at the sudden unbidden thought. Face forcefully stoic, he moved his hand over to his brother’s chest and, jaw clenched, felt for the steady _tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump_ that was a familiar beat to him.

A second passed.

He didn’t move.

Then, _finally, oh God_ , a slow, but stable, beat.

He couldn’t stop the shaky relieved half-laugh that rolled out – his mind was still full of the very fresh memory of a too-still Sam, pale and unmoving and no heart beat to be found.

But – something wasn’t right, of course it wasn’t. The beat under his palm was too slow, too weak for a body void of injury. Dean stared hard at his brother’s chest, which barely rose with soft breaths, and had to convince himself he wasn’t imagining it and that Sam _was not_ dead.

Unresponsive, but not dead.

Quiet and shaking with sudden fear when his next attempts to shake Sam awake failed – “ _Sammy_?”

* * *

Sam tried hard not to panic. He wouldn’t do himself any good  _panicking_ , or Dean –

Oh God. _Dean_.

He slowed his fast pacing and turned, watching with horrified eyes at his older brother’s ineffectual attempts to wake him up – to wake his body up, whatever. The look of shocked terror that came up on Dean’s face when he realised Sam wasn’t responding at all raised a lump in Sam’s throat as he watched. He’d hardly seen his brother like _that_ – vulnerable and frightened, not sure what to do. It was _painful_.

“No... Sammy, don’t do this, dammit,” Dean growled, clenching his jaw.

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed anxiously. He went closer, then hovered back a bit, unsure of what to do. “C’mon Dean,” he spoke softly, even though he knew it’d be a wasted effort. “I’m _right here_ , can’t you – I don’t know, man, _sense_ me or something?” His mind went back to that black day over a year ago, when Dean was dying and Sam had gotten the feeling that he was around somewhere.

Dean’s eyes strayed from the bed – _body_ – to the door, trailing over the untouched salt lines on the floor, then the windowsill. He swallowed and reluctantly – _fearfully_ – returned his gaze to his brother’s form. Sam clenched his jaw at the broken whisper of “ _No, Sammy, c’mon_ ” and headed over to the door, not knowing where he was going; but he had to _do_ something, find something that could help – clues, a hint, _anything_.

But he hit an invisible barrier before he could reach the door. He couldn’t go over the salt line. Sam stared at it, then down at himself, as though he was trying to see if he looked like a fading spirit or anything, but – no, still solid-looking; just couldn’t pass the salt. _Damn it_.

He couldn’t exactly find anything if he had to stay in the motel room.

Now what?

* * *

His head snapped up as his senses picked up...  _something_ , in the room. Dean pushed back the frightening barrage of emotions at seeing his brother’s almost-still body so soon after— _no, not going there_ – and he straightened up, his practiced gaze sweeping the room once more. He didn’t  _see_ anything, but still... he could have sworn he’d felt something  _there_ .

He shot one more glance at Sam then got up cautiously, still searching the room for any disturbances. He slid over to his own bed and grabbed his rock-salt-loaded rifle, cocked it and subconsciously placed himself over his brother’s body – protecting him, _always protecting._ He cast a wary trained eye over the room, but nothing was out of place... still, he was a hunter, and a damn good one at that. He wasn’t just going to ignore his instinct.

And instinct was telling him that there was something there.

With a frustrated growl – _don’t have time for this, dammit_ – Dean reluctantly moved away from Sam’s bed to double-check the salt at the door, then the windows. None of them were broken, so that-

The windows were shut.

Dean stared at them, something niggling at the back of his mind.

They were _shut_.

Which meant... there couldn’t have been a draft in the room from them.

_Which meant-_

He turned quickly and roved his gaze over the room again, more cautious this time, as the clues slid together. Cold draft, sense of something – or _someone_ – there...

Dean slipped back to Sam’s side, trying not to stare too long at the barely-rising chest to count the breaths, the unmoving body raising images best left hidden- _blood and gaping wound, notbreathing, nonono-_

“Son of a bitch!” he cursed, hefting his shotgun in frustration before common sense hit him, making him drop it on his own bed with a hiss. The last thing he needed was to fire, and…

He grimaced.

**x-x-x-x**

When Dean picked up his shotgun, Sam froze and cursed. He should’ve known Dean would realise something was up soon, but he’d gotten preoccupied with the whole can’t-leave-the-room deal to consider the other problem at hand. And he really did not want to get a shell full of rock salt blasting through him. He’d never been shot by the stuff, but that time at the asylum when he was possessed and had shot Dean... well, it sure hadn’t been fun for his brother, to say the least.

Sam slowly moved away from the door, anxiously watching his brother’s eyes roam the room – wary, but vigilant. He didn’t miss the way Dean stood in front of his body, feet placed firmly apart and stance rigid – guarding him – and a fond smile crept onto his face despite the totally crappy situation.

After a few moments, Dean huffed and dropped the shotgun, jaw clenched. He dropped to sit on the edge of Sam’s bed without looking at his brother and raked a hand wearily through his short hair. “This is so messed up,” he muttered to himself, sounding almost dazed.

Sam winced at his older brother’s raw pain and – before he realised what he was doing – moved forward to put a hand on his shoulder bracingly. He stopped himself just a hair’s breadth away from Dean and jerked back hurriedly in panic when Dean suddenly sat up and looked around, eyes widening.

Sam stumbled with his sudden movement and fell back, wildly panicked for no reason, crashing against the side of the table – he didn’t feel any pain from the sharp contact, but even if he had been able to, it would have instantly been numbed by the _crash_ of fallen glass.

Two pairs of wide eyes swivelled to the broken beer bottle that now lay on the ground – Dean’s startled as he shot to his feet; Sam’s stunned as he turned his stare to his hand, which had automatically flung out to find something to catch onto to break the fall. And had hit the bottle. And sent it flying.

It sent his mind reeling back to another time, a similar moment – only that time, he hadn’t paid much attention to it – _hospital and worry, pissed off at Dad, scared for Dean, an argument interrupted by crashing glass..._

That had been _Dean_ , Sam just realised. He must have been frustrated by their fighting, let his emotions get the better of him and smashed the cup.

After all, that was how ghosts became so dangerous. Let their feelings of anger and hate and rage build up and fuel them, until they could throw people around and kill them.

And Sam… Sam had been panicked.

And then the strained silence that had stretched after the crash was broken by Dean’s shaky yet hopeful voice – “Sammy? You here?”

* * *

Dean held his breath without realising it, staring around the room, ears straining for a sound, _anything_. But the silence extended after his words, and he moved hesitantly towards the broken glass on the floor, kneeling down to pick up the larger pieces and throwing them in the trash. Then he stopped, arms crossed, and surveyed the room once more, trying to get his head on straight and _think_ properly.

That had been Sam, he was as positive of that as he was that he sure as hell wasn’t going to let his brother go anywhere again – not on his watch, not after he’d just gotten him back from the dead... not when it was _his_ last year here and every second with his brother counted.

So Dean forced himself to calm down, something he had a lot of practice with – though admittedly not in _this_ situation, and thank God for that, at least. When he spoke this time – senses on full alert and aware of everything around him – his voice was more controlled, firm.

“Sam? If you’re here... if that was you, and I’ll bet my life it was... or what’s left of it anyway-“ he cut off in a rush of breath as something _freezing ice cold_ passed through him – through his head. Eyes wide, he looked around, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see him, rubbed the back of his head with a half-indignant but mostly relieved, “ _Dude_?! What the hell?” There was no response this time, but it was enough to get Dean’s tightened stance to relax, to let a brief grin flash on his face. If Sam was still around, if he was okay enough to get all indignant and smack his brother even, then he could fix him, no worries.

He headed over to his own bed and unloaded his shotgun, not wanting to risk any accidents if his brother was in ghost form. Speaking of which... Dean’s eyes trailed over to Sam’s body and he couldn’t suppress the shiver than passed through him or the dark thoughts that immediately pushed into his mind. It was eerily similar, Sam lying peacefully – _lifelessly_ – on a bed, as if he was just sleeping and not—

_No. Don’t go there. Don’t._

He wasn’t _lifeless_ , and he wouldn’t be anytime soon; not if Dean had any say in it.

* * *

Sam was – to say the least – ecstatic that his brother had figured out that he was still  _there_ , even if he couldn’t see him. One step at a time. They could work this out.

If only he had a better way of communicating than slapping his really not hilarious brother on the head every time he passed a _joke_ about his... deal. Turns out getting upset like that meant he could get a reaction out of whatever he touched, but – like his panicked move before – it didn’t last.

So Sam sighed and followed Dean back to the beds, watched him unload the gun – thankfully, because Sam did not want to get up close and personal with rock salt any time soon, and Dean also had the hindsight to remove all objects of harm out of the way when his little brother’s life was endangered. The last thought made him snort in laughter, old memories rising up from when he was young, barely-formed memories, of Dean setting up cushions all around the motel and making sure anything sharp or breakable was out of reach. Child-proofing the room for his baby brother.

Now, it seemed, he had to ghost-proof it instead.

Sam wasn’t surprised when his brother’s thoughts seemed to be in accord to his own. He turned his troubled gaze from Sam’s body – which Sam was carefully _not_ looking at – to let narrowed eyes wander around to the protective salt barriers lining the entrances.

He mused out loud, “I’m guessing you can’t step out of the salt, huh, Ghost-boy?”

“ _Ghost-boy_?” Sam made a face at the new title – clearly a replacement to being called a geek. “Seriously, dude? And no...” he trailed off with a frustrated sigh when he remembered that Dean couldn’t hear him.

His brother continued talking as if he hadn’t been interrupted, moving back a step to perch on the edge of his bed. A brief smirk flitted across his face. “Bet you’d just love to be stuck in here until we fix this with nothing to do...”

Sam felt a rush of affection well up inside him at his big brother’s unhesitant ‘ _until we fix this_ ’; found himself believing him, _trusting_ that Dean would find a way. Because he always did; because he never let Sam down. Never made a promise he couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – do anything to keep.

He sank down on the bed next to Dean, happily anticipating the slight twitch of his brother’s head, the way his eyes moved to his right, as if he sensed Sam was there. “I’ll break the salt line,” Dean eventually said, breaking his own reflective silence, and Sam knew he’d been thinking about this. “Just try not to... _walk through_ people out there, man. It’s like getting dunked in ice from the inside out.”

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind if they don’t step out of my way,” Sam muttered sarcastically, wondering where Dean was going now. They’d had an appointment with the coroner and then the local police, some case Dean had found a couple of nights ago. They didn’t know much details, had been planning to gather them from the interviews today.

Obviously, the unforseen turn of events had shoved that out of their minds. Sam wasn’t sure Dean even remembered they had somewhere to be – he glanced at his watch – by 11 at most, which was less than an hour away.

Dean shifted beside him, puffed out a breath, raked a hand through his hair – all agitated movements. “Dude, this sucks,” he mumbled, getting to his feet and grabbing his bag to pull his forged FBI card. Sam’s eyebrows rose – seemed like Dean had remembered, though it wasn’t that surprising. Dean tended to shove everything and anything out of his mind if his brother was hurt somehow, but once he knew that Sam was alright – or, well, in this case, still with him (in a sense) – his mind went back to dealing with the matters at hand. Namely, the hunt.

“So I’ll go see the coroner and talk to the police,” Dean said to the air around him, and Sam nodded, ignoring the fact that he wasn’t seen. “You just... stay with me, alright?” He didn’t look up – probably seeing no point to it if he couldn’t make eye contact to a brother he couldn’t see – but Sam didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at the last words, hands stilling their movement, and he didn’t hold back his reply even as it fell to silent ears. The comfort was provided nonetheless, and that was what mattered.

“Not going anywhere, Dean,” he said softly, eyes sad as he watched the tense set of his brother’s shoulders as he started towards the door. “I’m not leaving you.” The vow went unheard; but that didn’t lessen its sincerity. 

* * *

Dean started the Impala, waiting a beat before pulling out of the driveway, wanting to make sure his brother was there in the passenger seat – like he always was. He’d replaced the break in the salt line at the door once they’d gotten out, assured himself that Sam _was_ with him and not stuck in the room with nothing to do except stare at his dead body the whole time.

He grimaced against the shudder from the unwanted thought and reached over instead to turn on the car’s cassette player. But as soon as his finger hit the ‘ON’ button, instead of playing Zeppelin’s _Ramble On_ , the song mixed up, starting halfway then switching sporadically between the cassette player and the radio.

Eyes widening slightly in an _‘oh, right_ ’ moment, Dean switched it off, shot a cocked eyebrow look at the seemingly empty seat beside him and a half-petulant, “Dude, it’s bad enough I can’t see you, now you gotta mess with my music too? Give me a break,” he griped, keeping his tone light so that Sammy wouldn’t get the wrong idea and think he was pissed at _him_ now. Because he wasn’t. It was just that this situation was infuriating, and he hadn’t even stopped yet to contemplate the _how_ s and _why_ s and _what_ s of this who messed-up deal.

“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled to himself, then adding in anticipation to Sam’s unheard, curious ‘ _what?_ ’ – “We don’t even know how this happened. I mean, come on, you don’t just go to sleep normal one night and wake up a freaking _ghost_ , just like that!” He was aware that he was tense and edgy – and if he hadn’t known before, the sharp swerve he had to make to avoid being crushed under a huge semi’s wheels as it came in from an intersection brought the fact to sharp focus right in front of his eyes. He could practically feel Sam’s reproving look as he tightened his grip on the wheel and forced his foot to ease off the gas a little.

“Sorry, baby, just a little strung taut right now,” he murmured to the Impala, loosening his grip as he did so. He added without missing a beat, “Shut up, Sammy.”

And, yeah, he couldn’t see him or hear him, but he hadn’t stuck around his brother for years for no reason. He could damn well imagine Sam’s indignant and surprised laugh – could almost hear it radiating from the passenger seat. And the eased his tension even more than his baby did.

* * *

Sam spluttered a laugh in surprise as his brother’s _‘shut up_ ’ cut off the teasing remark that was on the tip of his tongue. Sometimes it really amazed him how in tune Dean was to him, as much as he appreciated and revelled in the fact. Because the way they could interact without words, by almost reading each other’s thoughts, had saved them on more than one occasion.

And it was definitely helping now.

Less than ten minutes later, they were pulling up outside a large, official-looking building with dark blue-tinted windows stretching across the front, taking up most of the space of the walls. Dean reached over to the ignition and turned off the engine, pocketing the car keys. But he turned to Sam before getting out, eyes flicking over to the seat that seemed empty to him.

“Alright, so we’ll check these deaths out, see what the police have to say. Then we’re going back to the motel to try to figure out what the hell happened with you,” he told Sam, who opened his mouth to protest that they should focus on the case – but shut it dismally when he remembered it was pointless.

Dean wasn’t his big brother for nothing, though, and seemed to sense the unhappy silence from Sam. He sighed, flexed the hand still resting on the wheel. “Sam, unless this... thing, whatever it is here, decides to go on a killing spree within the next few hours, then we’re focusing on getting _you_ back to your Sasquatch self first. Got it?” The question was more of a demand, coupled with a short insistent glare Sam’s way, before he opened the door and got out.

Sam sighed and followed suit, sliding out of the car – literally – passing through the metal frame as if it was air. Or as if _he_ was air. He trudged after his brother, hands in his pockets, trying to avoid walking through anyone.

As they approached the building, Sam looked around and noticed with apprehension the security cameras situated all over the place. His presence had screwed up the radio in the Impala without him meaning to – what if it affected the cameras too? And then if the security officers noticed and decided to play it back to find any suspicious activity, surely they’ll notice Dean walking in at the same time the camera stopped working. Then all they had to do was run ID checks and they’d realise they have a supposed criminal mastermind at their hands – one wanted by the FBI themselves, no less.

All this ran through Sam’s head in the few steps it took to reach the stairs leading up to the automatic doors. He watched as Dean made his way up and, resolute in his judgement, decided to stay outside until Dean returned.

His plan didn’t exactly work that way, though, because as soon as Dean was inside and the doors had slid shut after him, all the warning that Sam got was an odd sharp tug at his midsection before he suddenly found himself standing inside, next to his brother. Sam blinked in confusion, looking down at himself almost anxiously. He felt normal, though – well, as normal as being pretty much _dead_ could ever feel.

Shaking off his puzzlement over what had just happened, Sam pushed the matter aside as he walked with Dean to the coroner’s office, his brother identifying himself as Agent Turner. Sam winced sympathetically when he noticed that Dean almost turned to him when the usually-immediate “Agent Bachman” didn’t come and his face darkened for a moment. The coroner – Owen Rutherford – didn’t notice anything as he nodded at him and turned to stride towards the coolers at the far end of the room. The Winchesters followed.

“Catherine Saurens was the latest death?” Dean asked for confirmation as Rutherford scanned the labels for the right person. He glanced up in surprise at the question.

“Second-to-latest, actually,” he said, elaborating when Dean cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. “Latest was the night before last, young man, Alex Munroe – ah, here we go...” He reached down and pulled out the gurney, stepping back professionally to let the ‘FBI agent’ examine the body as he pulled the sheet back off the man’s head and chest. Sam stepped closer to take a look, unnerved by how eerily calm Alex looked in death – there were no marks, no wounds, nothing. If it wasn’t for the unnatural pale skin under soft blond hair, he could have been sleeping.

“Cause of death?” Dean queried after his own short examination. Sam saw the frown on his face, the conflict in his eyes as he looked up sharply at the coroner. He didn’t know why... until Rutherford replied, clearly bewildered.

“That’s the thing. All three deaths like this one in the past couple of weeks showed up... well, nothing. Complete blank on all examinations. Nothing wrong with them except the fact that their hearts stopped beating...” he trailed off, caught off guard at the suddenly dark look that flashed across Dean’s features.

“Did they have anything in common?” he pressed, voice low. Sam unknowingly held his breath.

A negative on that front. “Not that I know of. Different ages, genders, lifestyles... Relatives are shell-shocked and claim nothing was wrong with them- well, not completely _nothing_ , I guess,” he amended.

When he didn’t elaborate, Dean pushed. “What was it?”

He sighed and shook his head, confusion written all over his face as he recovered Alex’s peaceful face. “Nothing much, it’s just both the deceased’s relatives – that is, all except for Mr. Phillips, he lived alone – claimed that the people seemed to suffer from nightmares night after night until... well, until they didn’t wake up.”

Sam felt like he’d been sucker-punched. By Dean’s suddenly pale face, he probably did too.

Looks like they were going to have to focus on the case after all.

* * *

Talking with the police didn’t confirm anything they didn’t already know – that this wasn’t something normal, for one; and for another, the authorities were deciding to leave it alone as, in their words, the deaths were natural enough to not warrant suspecting foul play. Dean snorted at the memory. He’d bet the Impala that it was some supernatural fugly killing people in this town just for kicks.

And said fugly was going to get a bittersweet taste of its _own_ medicine now because it had messed with Dean’s brother, and _no-one_ messed with Sammy without knowing the taste of their own blood soon after.

This shit was _personal_.

Dean pushed open the door to their motel room with probably more force than was necessary, threw his keys on the table and scuffed at the salt line with his shoe before shutting the door. He turned almost angrily to where he assumed – knew – Sam was standing.

“Nightmares, Sam!” he exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the tabletop in frustration. “You said you were _fine_ , that they were _nothing_. You couldn’t have _mentioned_ that they weren’t like your usual dreams? And don’t even _try_ to tell me you didn’t suspect something was wrong with them, Sam, I know your instincts are better than that,” he almost snarled before cutting off, hanging his head, muscles taut. He shouldn’t be yelling at Sam for this, knew that he shouldn’t, but if his brother had _said_ something earlier...

He jumped when a cold current passed through his right side, like an icy breeze bracing his shoulder, then sent a half-hearted glare to his side. “A little warning next time, bro.” A corner of his lips tugged up against his will, though, at the response. Dean straightened up, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyes downcast as his anger drained away. He raised one hand to rub at the back of his neck wearily. “Crap, man... It’s not your fault, Sammy, I know. It’s just- this whole _thing_...” he broke off, gritting his teeth against the despair that threatened to creep into his voice. He couldn’t lose it now. Sam was there, which meant they could _fix_ this. It wasn’t – _wouldn’t_ be, like last time.

The cold feeling moved as Sam patted him once on the chest, his silent support relieving – though Dean wouldn’t admit it. He opened his mouth to quip about Sam taking advantage of his touchy-feely stuff, but the words never got past his lips. Instead, a choked-off cry escaped him as his eyes widened in shock.

Because Sam’s form had just flickered into view before him.

Then flickered out as soon as Dean involuntarily stepped back.

“Sam?” he called almost desperately, eyes seeking his brother out, but if he was still there – and Dean guessed he was – he didn’t show. He let out a breath. “What the hell was that?”

This time, there was no frigid chill, and Dean swore as he realised that what Sam had done – if he _had_ done anything – to get himself visible, might have drained his energy or something. He didn’t know everything about ghosts, hardly anything past how to repel and destroy them. With their life, it was easier to just stick to the need-to-know details, and nothing more. Sam had always been the one with the questions, the ‘how’s and ‘what if’s, the sometimes insatiable urge to _know_ things.

At that moment, Dean wished he’d bothered to learn more about spirits before. How was he supposed to help Sammy if he didn’t?

* * *

Sam’s mind was reeling. What had just happened? He’d  _felt_ it, a brief moment of being solid, of being  _grounded_ , that instant he’d touched Dean. But he didn’t get it – what changed? It hadn’t happened before. Maybe it was sheer willpower, the need to be with his brother, but even Sam was sceptical over that theory.

He watched helplessly as Dean cursed and paced the room for a minute, then – with a cursory pained glance at Sam’s bed – sat at the table and opened their laptop. Curious, Sam stepped closer, peering in over his brother’s shoulder as Dean searched up information on spirits. His eyebrows shot up as he realised that Dean was searching up ways to communicate with spirits, and he could’ve slapped himself for not thinking of that before...

Dean scrolled past less-than-helpful pages with a grumble of, “Dude, there is no way I’m playing a freakin’ slumber party game to talk to you...”

Sam couldn’t help but snort, the quip slipping past automatically. “Hate to break it to you, Dean, but you’ve alre- hey!” He broke off with the startled cry as Dean almost fell out of his chair and swivelled around with a shocked expression.

“Did you just...” Dean trailed off, eyebrows furrowing when he realised that he couldn’t see Sam. The younger Winchester stared at him in confusion. At the silence that followed, Dean shook his head in dismay, the frustration clear in his tone as he slumped back in the seat with a tired mumble, “Great, now I’m hearing things.”

_Did he hear me?_

_Nah... can’t have... right?_

“Dean?” Sam ventured hesitantly, and almost laughed in elation when his brother reacted, raising his head.

Dean looked wary, as if he didn’t want to get his hopes up that his brother was there, only to have them crushed again. Sam felt a pang go through him, but it was squashed down when Dean offered him an opening, a quiet, “Sammy?”

“You _can_ hear me!” Sam near-laughed, taking the other seat at the table in relief.

He watched as his older brother blinked in a daze, shook his head, let his eyes sweep over the room. “Where are you? I can’t...” He made a face. “Dude, you’re talking in my head.”

“What?” Sam asked in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean, in your head?”

“As in, your voice is _in my head_ , Sam. Where are you?” Dean demanded, giving up his futile search.

“Sitting next to you...” Sam waited till Dean’s gaze blindly turned to him, his own relief at finally being able to communicate mirrored in his brother’s green eyes. The corners of his lips turned up into a grin. “So. Long day, huh?”

Dean shot him a long-suffering glance that was more _his_ department, swivelling his eyes back down to the laptop with a dark look. “Yeah. And that’s the understatement of the century,” he snorted.

Puzzled and somewhat worried over the sudden gloom that settled over the room, Sam pushed softly. “Hey, man. You okay?”

That earned him a familiar sarcastic cocked eyebrow. “Oh yeah, Sam, I’m _peachy_. Y’know, considering I thought my brother was _dead_ but realised that – nah, he’s just a freaking _ghost_ ‘cause something freaking _got him_ under _my_ watch.” His jaw ticked as he clenched it and, without warning, pushed away from the table to pace a few steps angrily.

Sam’s eyebrows drew together anxiously at his brother’s short tirade, mentally berating himself for not seeing this – for not seeing how these events would affect Dean so soon after his... well, his death. He stood, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. “Dean...”

Dean stopped pacing and turned back to the seat, face hard.

Sam struggled for the right words, for the correct thing to say at the moment that wouldn’t send Dean retreating behind the careless, impassive facade he was such an expert at. This wasn’t something he could just bring up any time, had to time it right, get the right tone that would work on his brother. Because he knew more than anyone that saying the wrong thing would push Dean away from the topic, make him clam up and change the subject – and Sam couldn’t risk letting this fester.

He took a breath. Went for the imploring little brother tone that almost always worked. “Dean, I’m fine, really. We’ll figure this out, right? Just another thing to hunt and as soon as we get it, I’ll- everything will be back to normal.” He paused waveringly, bit his lip as Dean snorted softly and turned away from him. “Dean? Come on, man. Talk to me.”

A moment of tense silence passed by, Dean’s stance betraying how on edge he was. Sam took a hesitant step forward, almost wishing he could read his brother’s mind because, at times like this, Dean was as much a stranger to him as anyone. And the fact pained him – that he couldn’t read his brother as easily, as effortlessly, as Dean could read him; that, even though he’d been following his brother’s footsteps since he was in diapers, there were times when he could barely fathom what was going through the older Winchester’s mind, when that impassive mask was too strong for even him to see through.

Dean’s sudden response stunned him. “ _Normal_? For what, less than a year?” The low, bitter tone mystified Sam when he detected it for what it was – self-loathing. His concern rose a couple of notches. Dean shook his lowered head, voice barely a growl. “What, does the world have a grudge against us or something?” And when he turned broken eyes to the rough position of where his brother was standing, Sam had to swallow hard against the sudden heat searing his throat. “You just-“ He broke off with a low growl, an angry bitter laugh, aiming a kick at the bed next to him. He’d clearly admitted more than he’d wanted to, almost over-stepped the line of how much he was willing to divulge to his brother.

Instead of the pain that Sam would have expected after his usually strong brother’s aching words, he felt an unfair anger building up inside him. Resentment, hurt... they mashed together and Sam lashed out, causing Dean’s head to snap up abruptly at his unexpected reply.

“And you’re _leaving me_ , Dean!” Sam stepped forward, barely two feet away from Dean now, arms flying out in frustration. “ _You’re_ the one who made a deal to go to _Hell_. _You_ made that decision, Dean, no-one else. You got me back, what, just so you can leave me alone after a year?” A short bitter laugh escaped him. Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes tightened slightly, stance becoming fractionally more rigid. Sam let loose one last cutting remark. “So _don’t_. Don’t you tell _me_ how hard it was to watch me _die_ -“ and felt a sick, twisted sort of triumph at how Dean’s composure hardened even more, an attempt to block off the pain his own _brother_ was shoving at him. “Not when I have to go through the same thing, because of _your_ decision. Just... don’t.”

Sam’s outburst had him teetering on an edge, a line between anger and sorrow and – as suddenly as it had come, the bitterness faded, leaving him tired and guilty for spewing the hurtful words at his brother who he knew was still trying to wrap his head around the recent events. He let out a breath, dropped his no-longer heated gaze to the floor, shuffled back. He didn’t want to see those wounded green eyes, or even worse, the steely cover that held in place his brother’s emotional barriers. Didn’t want to see evidence of how hard _his_ words had hit Dean.

So, with a mumbled “Sorry” and barely any conscious thought... Sam felt himself flicker like a stray leaf in the wind before fading into darkness.

* * *

With Sam’s words still echoing loudly in his head, it took a moment for Dean to realise he’d backed up until he was at the edge of his bed. Then another moment to acknowledge the stillness around him. And he didn’t have to raise his head to know what that meant – the odd silence that had now settled in his mind, the tranquillity in the room... Sam wasn’t there anymore.

He didn’t bother calling out, searching for him. Instinct told him Sam had made his dramatic exit after his rant – whether he’d done it consciously or not, though, he didn’t know.

And right _then_ , it hit him. Like a speeding truck (and he knew damn well how _that_ felt), his own words seemed to taunt him. _Something_ in this town had come after his brother and gotten him _on his watch_. The hell kind of brother did that make him?

_A fucking shitty one, that’s what. Watch out for Sammy? Yeah, piss-poor job at that, Winchester, well done._

Growling curses under his breath, Dean pushed away from the bed and swept a hand angrily across the table, sending the other two beer bottles smashing to the ground. But the breaking glass only served to mock him further and a fist landed heavily on the tabletop, threatening to splinter the wood into pieces. The kick he aimed at it almost did the job – and the crash as it fell to the ground snapped something inside of him. Dean stopped, hands fisted by his sides, breathing harshly as he stared at the mess.

 _‘Cause that’s just what I do, isn’t it_ , he internally snarled. _Break and ruin things, yeah, sure. But then when it comes to fucking putting the pieces back together_...

He shook himself and irately shoved aside his mocking thoughts. This wasn’t a time to berate himself; he could do that _after_ fixing this thing.

Having hardly anything to go on wasn’t something Dean was unfamiliar with, but he could use some extra help here. And since Sam was currently out of the equation...

Reaching for his phone, Dean dialled up Bobby.

It only took two rings for the older hunter to pick up. “ _Yeah?_ ”

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, pacing across the room for a moment to gather his words. “Listen, we need some help.”

“ _Yeah, I figured you weren’t calling to gossip_ ,” came the wry reply. “ _What’ve you boys run into this time?_ ”

Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw, grimacing even as he admitted, “No clue. But it... it went after Sam.” His eyes flicked over involuntarily to Sam’s prone body before he forced it away, gazing out the window instead.

Over the phone, Bobby cursed. “ _How bad is he?_ ”

This time he winced. “Uh... Bobby, it...” He let out a rush of air, eyes sliding shut when he managed to get the words out. “It’s going after people and killing them in their sleep.” The tense stoicism of his voice must have alerted Bobby to what he wasn’t saying aloud.

“ _But Sam’s not dead?_ ”

“No.” A beat passed. “But- He’s a ghost.”

The silence stretched for a couple of seconds and Dean wondered vaguely whether he shouldn’t have just sprung that on Bobby just like that. And why was he so calm talking about this anyway when a minute ago he was going mad _thinking_ about it? The part of him that was full big brother was telling him he should still be freaking out over the fact that his _brother_ had just been Swayze’d – but the hunter side of his mind shut it up and ordered him to _stay focused_ and not get distracted, if he wanted to _get_ his brother back to normal.

Funny how that side sounded like his dad.

Bobby eventually spoke up. Dean admitted to himself – he had to give the old hunter credit for not reacting. “ _Well, I gotta say I didn’t see that one comin’. And you sound awfully calm about this, by the way – what, you in shock, or you just haven’t adjusted yet?_ ” The words were dry, but the tone behind them betrayed his concern for the boys.

Dean glared ahead. “There’s nothing to adjust _to_ , Bobby; this ain’t permanent. Soon as I find the motherfucker who did this, I’m blasting its ass back to hell and then Sammy’ll be back to normal,” he said firmly, unknowingly repeating the very words from his brother that he had scorned.

“ _Alright, then. You better fill me in on what happened..._ ”

 

**x-x-x-x**

 

_Running. He had to get away. Feet pounded heavily on the floor, the floor he could feel but couldn’t **see**. _

_Get away. Faster. He wasn’t fast enough._

**_It’s coming._ **

_Darkness invaded his vision, blackblackblack – he couldn’t see, couldn’t see where he was **going** and it was getting closer and **closer** -_

_Suddenly he stopped. Skidded to a halt. Horrified and scared and oh no, god no, please not-_

_It was fire._

_He could see. **All** he could see was **fire**. White-hot, red tips creeping towards him, trying to lick him, to capture him in their hold-_

_There- a face. Her face. A silent scream that ripped through him, tore at his heart. Sent a choked cry from his lips – “No- **Jess**!”_

_And he was stumbling towards her, into the flames, letting them encircle him and trap him in and the **heat** was searing at his flesh, but he couldn’t – didn’t – feel them, only saw her, heard her voice, and he was close **soclose**..._

_It vanished._

_It all vanished._

_The fire, gone. The heat, gone. Jess... gone._

_“ **No!** ”_

_But it wasn’t coming back. And he wasn’t alone. **It** was still there, watching him, feeding off his despair and hopelessness and why couldn’t it just **stop**?_

_“What do you **want** from me?” he yelled. Dropped to his knees on the ground- dirt. It wasn’t an unseen path. It was dirt. And there were running footsteps and voices shouting and a **searing burning pain** and then-_

_Dean. Dean’s voice- Dean, yelling his name; Dean, sprinting towards him, sliding to his knees and grabbing hold of him, talking to him, assuring him. And his voice was blurred and fading and echoing oddly in his ears but he caught parts of it – “I gotcha” and “It’s not even that bad”... “It’s my job, right... watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother.” And then... then, he was fading, darkdark blackness closing in on him, and he was fallingfallingfalling-_

_Dying, he was **dying** and it was going to get him... was going to finish him off for good and Dean’s voice faded as its horrible words slithered into his head..._

_“ **You’re mine now, Sam Winchester... as you should have been.** ”_

**x-x-x-x**

 

“ _Nightmares? About what?_ ”

Dean growled in frustration. “I don’t know! The kid didn’t speak about his _normal_ nightmares, you think he’s gonna share the details now?” He sighed, half-heartedly thumping a hand against the wall before leaning into it. “Sorry, Bobby, I didn’t mean to-“

“ _You don’t gotta apologize, Dean,_ ” Bobby cut him off, stern but understanding. “ _Now, these nightmares – did you notice anything odd about them? The way he reacted when he was sleepin’?_ ”

His eyebrows furrowed as he remembered something. “Wait- yeah, actually... They got worse. I mean, at first, it was barely anything, y’know? But then, night by night, they got... I don’t know, more intense, I guess. Last night...” he trailed off, feeling sick.

Sam _had_ been in the throes of a particularly bad dream last night. And Dean had woken up around two a.m. from his thrashing and constant disturbed mutterings. He’d woken Sam up, watched and waited till the kid was dozing off again, this time more calmly. And he’d put it out of his mind because nightmares were Sam’s specialty and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure why he’d be having them _now_ , especially.

But still, he should have sensed- should have _known_ something was wrong this time ‘round. He’d practically raised the kid, for heavens’ sake, and now he couldn’t even _see_ that Sam’s life was in danger when it was right under his nose.

Bobby’s voice startled him out of his dark thoughts. “ _Dean? Ya still with me?_ ”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” he muttered, dropping to sit on the chair, feeling drained. He propped up his chin on a hand, forcing himself to stay _focused_ , dammit. Clearing his throat before continuing, Dean asked, “So, do you know anything that does that?”

“ _Not outta the top of my head, I don’t. What happened after that, though? And where’s Sam?_ ”

Dean sighed heavily and his tone dropped, making his voice gruffer. “I don’t know, he disappeared. We, uh, kinda had a fight. Said some stuff and Sam got worked up, made an Oscar-worthy dramatic speech and... yeah, vanished.”

“ _Wait, how do you have an argument with someone you can’t see or hear?_ ”

He sat up at that, having almost forgotten that little titbit of information in the midst of the whole nightmares thing. “I was hoping you could tell me, man. I couldn’t hear him at first, and then suddenly Sam’s talking in my head,” he elaborated. “And... there was this moment, I could’ve _sworn_ he became visible – just for a second. It wasn’t permanent, though, he went back to ghost after that... And then I could hear him perfectly... no idea _how_.”

“ _Well, did either of you idgits do something that might have triggered that? ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty damn sure that doesn’t just happen,_ ” Bobby replied, and Dean could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “ _Though you Winchesters sure got a knack for doing the impossible_.”

“Yeah, we’re just awesome like that,” Dean smirked half-heartedly even as he recalled what exactly had happened, right before Sam somehow established a psychic connection with him. He’d ranted and then jumped online, and...

Dean blinked, wondering how he hadn’t seen it before. “Bobby. Does physical contact do anything to a ghost?”

“ _Hold on, let me just call up my ghost friend and ask. I don’t know, boy, they don’t usually stick around to share their communication secrets._ ”

“Good point...” He frowned, running a hand wearily over his stubbled chin. “Maybe not, though, ‘cause I wasn’t able to hear him _before_ that, only after-“ And then Dean’s hand fell into contact with a very familiar leather cord and he froze, thought process coming to a screeching halt.

“ _What is it?_ ”

“The amulet,” Dean muttered, eyes wide as he lifted the metallic horned figure hanging around his neck. “Sam touched the amulet.”

* * *

Bobby’s reply was instantaneous. “ _Your amulet? The one he-“_

“-gave me when we were kids, yeah,” Dean confirmed, throat dry. He looked up suddenly at his brother’s prone figure, an idea forming. “Bobby, see if you can find out what’s behind this. I’ll call you back later.” He shut the phone and slipped it back in his pocket before getting up, steadily moving over to crouch down beside Sam’s bed.

Realising that staring wasn’t going to do much for his frayed nerves, Dean braced himself and slipped the amulet off, cradling it in his hand for a moment. “Alright, here goes nothin’...” He reached for Sam’s hand with his empty one, turned it palm-up – uneasy at how _cold_ and – _notlifeless he’s not lifeless_ – it felt.

After Jake had stabbed Sam, Dean had held onto him the whole time in the car, numb and unfeeling but aware enough to know that letting Sam go would be _letting him go_. That Sam was _gone_ and wasn’t breathing and wasn’t moving, and somehow all these things bounced around in his otherwise empty mind. It wasn’t until Bobby had softly urged him into that cabin and gotten him to put his brother on that cot that it had hit him.

He hadn’t been able to make himself touch Sam after that. Didn’t want more evidence that his brother wasn’t _there_.

He could not possibly be more relieved that that wasn’t the case _now_ , because as his fingers slipped down to Sam’s wrist, pressing hard, the comforting _thump_ against his fingertips was all the assurance he needed. Steeling himself, he dropped the amulet into Sam’s hand, feeling the moment when its heaviness left his hand to weight down his brother’s.

A soft wind swept through the room.

Dean looked up, expectant...

* * *

_He could see it. It had him and it was taking him and he **couldn’t fight it** -_

_Get away, he had to... had to get awaygetawaygetaway._

_“ **No... You can’t escape me now, Sam Winchester**.” It’s voice was grating, filling the crushing darkness, echoing sinisterly around him. _

_Surrounding him._

_“ **It’s time...** ” _

_Completely._

_“ **For your fate**...”_

_Like its grip._

_Tight. Unrelenting. It had him and it wasn’t letting go._

_But he had to escape it... couldn’t – couldn’t let some... some fugly take him, he was a hunter dammit, he could... he was supposed to fight these things. Not let them take him, not now, not away from his brother, not again, no-_

_He jolted. Its hold slackened. Wavered.Confused._

_What..._

_A force. Something... something was pulling him? He couldn’t-_

_The darkness gave way to bursts of light. Bright, sudden,_ flashes. A room, bed— ** _dark_** _lightdarklight- Disorientating. He was being **pulled** -_

_“ **No-!** ” Its snarl was loud, strong, but its grip was even weaker. He slipped from it, seeking the other lugging force – the radiance and that... that sense of... security, warmth, safety-_

“Dean!”

Sam’s eyes screwed shut tight against the abrupt change – shadows to light, a mess of confusion and chaos to being _grounded_ -

“Holy shit...” A voice breathed from in front of him. And it wasn’t until the owner of that voice moved swiftly to crouch down in front of him that Sam realised he was slumped on the floor, on his knees, eyes still shut and head bowed. And even then, it took the concerned “Sammy?” that followed to get him to look up.

Into his brother’s green eyes – worry and relief battling for dominance in them.

A smile tugged at his lips. “Hey,” Sam said wearily. He felt odd. That sense of being grounded again – what was it? He wasn’t... light and gliding anymore...

“Sam?” Dean’s voice snapped his focus back. “Y’alright?” He looked unsure, eyebrows furrowed, and Sam couldn’t figure out why.

To be fair, he couldn’t really think of much at the moment; his mind still fogged and thoughts still swirling in a mass of musty darkness and ominous mutterings; too content to just sit there and _stay_ sitting, not worry or think or do anything much really. And that haze at the back of his mind was getting insistent, didn’t seem _too_ bad really, the way it was inviting him back... maybe if he just closed his eyes and let go-

“Hey, hey, hey!” The sharp call startled him. He blinked his eyes open and blearily glared up at Dean, who glowered back, crossing his arms. “Stay with me here, Sam! You pull another disappearing ninja trick like that on me again and I will tie you to the car,” he threatened.

Sam frowned. Nodded. _Right_. No disappearing on Dean. Okay... Maybe he should get off the floor, though. He was sure it couldn’t be too comfortable – for him _or_ Dean – but funnily enough, he wasn’t _feeling_ sore. Or anything, actually. Which didn’t make any sense... hadn’t he been running? His frown deepened as he scoured his mind – he _had_ been running... sprinting... to something? Or away from it? He shook his head, trying to make some sense of the dislodged thoughts swimming around it.

It must’ve done something, because abruptly – one thing was crystal clear. Sam looked up all of a sudden. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” And his voice sounded odd, not echo-ey like he remembered.

Dean held back most of a wince. He shifted on the balls of his feet, half-shrugged. “Technically... no. Heart’s still beating. Uh, you’re just a ghost. But we’re gonna find the sucker that’s behind this, don’t worry,” he answered, tone full of that big brother reassurance that was always a constant in light of Sam’s fears growing up.

Sam mulled over that, feeling a bit more awake now that Dean wasn’t hovering or looking like he was afraid Sam was going to fade out on him, was instead back to his stay-calm-until-we-figure-this-out self. It made him wonder, almost absurdly, if his emotions were being controlled or affected somehow by his brother’s.

“Okay,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Dean. He nodded once, raised a hand to grip the edge of the bed beside him, ready to haul himself up. Because he still felt heavy and that didn’t make any _sense_ if he was _dead_. “What are we...” he started as he started to get up, but trailed off, stopping once he’d gotten to his feet. Sam swayed, reached out to steady himself. Dean was there in a second, grabbing his forearm to steady him.

“I feel weird,” Sam muttered. Stared at the hand holding him up. Puzzled. How-?

“I figured,” Dean frowned, carefully nudging him back until he perched on the bed before letting go. Empty bed. Which meant the _other_ bed- “Don’t.” Dean sat next to him, effectively blocking his view of the... _his_ bed. Sam felt relieved. He didn’t really want to see that again anyway.

“Dean, what happened?” Sam finally asked the question that summed up all the ones that were doing laps in his mind. _Why am I still here? What did you do? What’s behind this? How can you see me? How long was I gone?_

Fortunately – for the both of them – Dean knew his brother well enough to hear the other questions behind that seemingly-simple one. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he glanced ahead for a second before letting his eyes slide back to Sam – like he couldn’t keep his gaze away for too long in fear of him disappearing. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure. All I know is, you vanished away to god-knows-where so I called Bobby, told him what happened and all...” He looked troubled, but a second later his expression cleared. If it was someone else, they would’ve missed it. Sam didn’t. Dean continued with a shrug. “He said he’d check it up, see what he can find on things that freak people out through nightmares enough to kill ‘em.”

Sam nodded slowly, processing it. “So...?” he probed, earnest eyes searching his brother’s. “How am I here? And how come you can see me?”

“Oh. Uh, well, we figured it out,” Dean glanced away again, hand coming up to rub at his neckline almost subconsciously. Sam noticed it immediately, confirmed it when Dean added, “We thought you were still hanging ‘round ‘cause of the amulet and, before, when you touched it-“

“You could see me,” Sam continued, eyes widening as he realised what it had been. And of course it was – what else _would_ it be? Because the amulet wasn’t _just_ an amulet. It was so much more than that, and now apparently it had saved his life. Because his brother had hardly taken it off ever since that Christmas, he recalled affectionately. Gratefully.

“Yeah.” Dean jerked his head towards the other bed – the one Sam knew his body lay, and that was even weirder to think now, when he didn’t even _feel_ much like a ghost was supposed to. “So I figured if, y’know, you were holding it, it’d work again.”

Which it obviously had. The corners of his lips curved up into a appreciative smile. “Thanks,” he said sincerely.

Dean shook his head and grinned at him. “Just doin’ my job, right?” He got to his feet then, didn’t wait for Sam’s reply, and as if on cue, his phone rang. Dean slipped it out of pocket and answered it, half turning so that Sam stayed in his sights. “Yeah Bobby...”

Sam tuned out the conversation – knowing that Dean would tell him the details after - and got up too, pleased to find that the shakiness from before seemed to have passed. Ignoring Dean’s quizzing look, he steadily head over to the opposite bed, trying not to pay too much attention to the other-him – _real-him_? – laying there. He saw it straight away, cradling in his open hand. Reaching down, Sam looped his fingers around the coil of thread and lifted it up, eyes catching the glint of the horned head hanging off it. He revelled in the fact that he _could_ hold it, that his hand didn’t just pass through it.

Raising his eyes from it to meet his brother’s, he offered a small smile before lifting the amulet up and slipping it on. The moment it fell against his chest, he felt more... _there_. Less dazed, lost; like he had been only partially present with fragments of him scattered all over.

Sam grinned at Dean, who looked relieved and pleased.

And to think – all because of one amulet...

* * *

“Okay, so here’s the low-down on what Bobby got,” Dean said as soon as he hung up, feeling a hell of a lot more energized now that things seemed to be looking up and they had something to work with.

Sam crossed the room in a few steps and seated himself in the chair Dean had been previously occupying. His attention was transfixed on his brother, who noted with relief that whatever dizziness or weakness that the younger Winchester had initially felt when he’d appeared – _re_ appeared – had worn off. Probably thanks due to his amulet, he thought, pleased.

Dean perched on the edge of his own bed, facing his brother; elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped out front, he looked at Sam with a serious expression. “Alright, I gave Bobby all the details I had after you did your little disappearing act – told him about the other victims and the nightmares-“ here he paused to shoot a sheepish Sam a withering glare, before continuing, “And he said he might have a lead. But he wants us to interview the others’ families first, see what we can get on them and their, uh, deaths. Situations leading up to them, at least. Anything odd that could have happened to affect them.” Here he frowned thoughtfully.

Sam thought he knew why, as he pointed out, “But we’ve only been here a few days and we haven’t exactly had the time to encounter anything odd. Well, except for the-“

“Then that’s it!” Dean cut in, sitting up and staring at Sam. The younger brother broke off, a startled “What?” enticing Dean to continue with renewed energy. “You’re pretty much our only clue, Sam. Hell, you’re the biggest clue we’ll get.” When Sam still looked like he didn’t completely comprehend what Dean was getting at, he shook his head and added, “The nightmares, Sammy. I mean, they were obviously linked to this thing, whatever it is. So – we get whatever details we can from what you dreamed about…”

“Well, yeah,” Sam conceded slowly, although not as excitedly as his brother. “That would be a great idea, if I could actually remember what I was dreaming about.” He grimaced, feeling a little bad for the way Dean seemed to deflate slightly at the news. He shrugged helplessly. “It’s not like I can replay them in HD, Dean,” he said reasonably. “All I know is that they were dark and there was… this sense of… I don’t know, morbid urgency, I guess. Other than that…” He shook his head slightly to indicate that was all he had.

Dean chewed on his lip, staring at the floor in silent contemplation. Then he nodded and got up, clasping his brother on the shoulder. “Alright, no worries. We’ll work with what we’ve got – or what we can get,” he amended, making his way to the door. He paused and glanced back, eyebrow raised when he saw that Sam had stood but hadn’t followed yet. “Sam? You comin’?”

Sam glanced up from the wreckage, the table and glass in shambles – and his laptop – all on the floor. That wasn’t what troubled him, though; more the thought and mental image of his brother being so pissed and frustrated to launch his anger at whatever was in sight. It sent his mind back to the horrible weeks after their dad’s death – _deal_ ; how a broken Dean had unleashed everything boiling under his skin onto the hood of his beloved car, the dents he had left in the tough metal corresponding with the unhealed scars on the older Winchester’s heart and soul.

Because Dean could handle injuries and fights, could face his own reapers and make jokes at the expense of his own death – but as soon as those things shifted over to his family, he couldn’t. And every time someone close to him died, a part of Dean went with them. He’d lost so much that night Mary had gone up in flames, a mere four year old at the time. But he’d shouldered it and used the knowledge of the world’s dangers to help his father and protect his brother. Then John had left him, too, and it broke Dean in more ways than one. Now orphaned, with a whole new set of responsibilities on his shoulders; and despite his efforts at hiding it from him, Sam saw, _knew_ what a staggering weight it was. And he thought that was a loss Dean might not recover from – might not _let_ those new wounds and gashes heal.

And then _Sam_ had been killed, in front of his eyes.

And Sam knew that for all the losses in their lives, all the hard hits that just _kept on coming_ , there was nothing that would hit either brother harder than the pain of losing each other. _Especially_ now. It was why he couldn’t stay mad at Dean for doing what he did – for getting Sam back, for signing his own death contract, for _wanting his brother alive_ – because, in his place… he couldn’t exactly claim he wouldn’t have done the same.

Which was why they needed to find the bugger who was behind this and gank him. Sam was pretty damn sure that his dying again was _not_ on Dean’s bucket list. And it would kind of put a downer on the rest of the year.

“Right behind ya,” Sam muttered and led the way out; Dean’s eyes following him all the way.

 

They started with Catherine Saurens’s family – though Dean was starting to wish they hadn’t. Maybe it was the fact that her death was still so recent, or that she was an only child, but talking to her grieving parents was even harder than their usual victim interviews.

It might also have had to do with the fact that Dean was pretty much alone here. They’d realised soon after leaving the motel room that no-one could see Sam except his brother, and wasn’t that just fucking brilliant? So now Dean had to get whatever info about the kid’s death that he could while simultaneously playing _Sam’s_ part of sympathetic CDC official. All while Sam was _right there_ , but effectively useless.

Dean shifted uncomfortably on the couch – sure, he’d done his fair share of solo hunts and interviews in the past, but this was relatively different. Mrs. Saurens was currently going through her second box of tissues. Her husband sat solemnly beside her, silent in his grief. Dean shot a brief and awkward glance at Sam, who grimaced empathetically. Dean cleared his throat briefly.

“I’m really sorry about your daughter,” he told them, tone low and serious. Starting over seemed appropriate, seeing as Mrs. Monroe had burst into tears as soon as he’d sat and mentioned Catherine. Dean had waited until the worst of it seemed to be over, before continuing. “And I know this is a bad time, it’s just we need all the information we can get to prevent… further… situations from occurring.” He hesitated, not wanting to elicit more pain for the parents by saying ‘deaths’.

The older man nodded in acknowledgement of his sincere words. His face was etched in lines of shocked despair – sudden deaths like Catherine’s always had the hardest impact on families. He sighed deeply. “We really don’t have much to tell you, son,” he said after a moment, rubbing his wife’s back comfortingly. “It was just… It was- sudden. She had no illness, the coroner told us her heart was perfectly fine, until…” He broke off, swallowed, and inclined his head slightly. Dean could finish his sentence fine on his own – _until it stopped beating_.

He nodded, head bowed as he pretended to record the information in his notepad – though what he wrote was more something along the lines of needing to gank this motherfucker ASAP… with a tad more vulgar eloquence that can only come from Dean Winchester. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam wandering around the house, observing what he could. He glanced up again at the older couple.

“I understand that Catherine was having, ah, disturbed sleep prior to… her death?” he asked, watching their faces closely.

Mr. Saurens nodded but it was his wife who answered, after sniffling once more into a tissue. Her voice was soft, no doubt tender from the emotional onslaught. “She was. She hadn’t… slept properly for nights, said they were nightmares.” Her expression crumpled for a second before she continued, “We expected them, after what happened to her last month, b-but, not…” Here, she stopped completely, retreating to her husband’s side with a wail.

Normally, Dean would have taken that as his cue to go, to leave them to mourn in peace. But not now – no… now, he may have just found something. He leaned forward earnestly, his expression open. “Why? What happened last month?”

“There was… a car accident,” the father told him, the pain clear in his eyes. “Cathy was driving home from work, and she, she got hit. A young driver. DUI, the police officer told us. It was… a close call. She was in hospital for a while… almost didn’t make it…”

“But she did,” Mrs. Saurens put in, voice wavering. “By some miracle, we got our daughter back. Only, only… to have her… taken now-“ She broke off with a sob.

It was fine, though, because Dean was done here. He’d gotten what he needed and it was high-time he got out of this house. So, with a sincere thank you and condolences – plus a quick check to make sure Sam was back with him – he left.

The brothers sat in the car outside for a few silent moments; Dean appreciating the cool air and reprieve from the stiflingly emotional confines of the house of yet another victim of one of the many monsters they had to hunt down in their lives; Sam half mulling over what they found out and half (mostly) concerned for the toll this was all taking on his brother. He eyed Dean worriedly, but didn’t address it – neither of them could do anything until they had more answers and could fix this.

Dean broke the silence with a sigh as he revved the engine, easing out the parking. He shot a glance at Sam. “Did you find anything in there?” They had agreed before entering that Sam would search the house for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Any clues at all.

Sam shook his head regretfully. “House was clear, as far as I could tell. Got into her room but there’s nothing there.”

“Great,” Dean grunted, speeding out.

 

 

Old Mr. Phillips had, as the coroner told them – well, told Dean – before, lived alone. He had no-one in town, but the brothers did their research. Or Sam did, anyway. And by gaining medical records that were most likely classified, they found out that he’d been in a coma recently. And had, against all odds, woken up from it and gone on to continue running his local business repairing and replacing worn car tires. That is, until the sudden death had hit him too.

So with that new-found knowledge and grim expectance of what they’d find out about the last victim, Sam and Dean headed towards their next destination.

Nick Munroe had no family in the city, either. He had, however, been bunking with his friend as they attended the local college together. Dean grimaced to himself as they made their way to the front door of their apartment – interviewing parents of victims was one thing, but close friends was a whole different matter. They weren’t always as open about their buddy’s life and predicaments.

So it was with a resigned sigh that Dean rang the doorbell, straightening his tie along with his expression into something more professional. Just not the douchebag kind of professional. Dean did not do _douche_ , whatever he was pretending to be.

The door opened after about half a minute and Dean found himself facing a tall young man who was undoubtedly Jason Royce – the dark hair in a crew cut and small scar on his left cheek clearly identifying him from the ID photo in the college’s student database. His blue eyes narrowed sharply at Dean, muscled arms crossed almost hostilely over his chest. “If you’re another fuckin’ reporter-“ he started angrily, but Dean cut him off with a smooth and calm, “Not a reporter.”

“Then who are you?” the kid demanded, still not budging.

Dean didn’t even bother offering up a fake smile, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Instead, he just flashed his faux-official card with a practiced, “Dean Kaplan, CDC official. Look, I’m not gonna be long, I just need some answers and then I’ll get out of your way,” he added imploringly.

Jason’s jaw ticked but he stepped aside, leading the way in and nodding tersely at the table, indicating for Dean to sit. He did, making a cursory sweep of the room as Sam roamed in further – undoubtedly looking for Nick’s bedroom.

“Jason, right?” he asked even though he already knew, attention returning to the younger man. Jason nodded and seated himself opposite Dean, one hand tapping a rhythmic beat on the table in front of him, the other dangling down beside him. Now that he wasn’t trying to tower over Dean in an intimidating way, the Winchester noticed that he seemed kind of lost – his eyes jumped from him to the door to scan the room. He waited for Jason to say something, knowing from past experience that a twitchy interviewee was bursting with things to confess.

“They haven’t found out what caused it, have they?” he finally asked, sharp eyes snapping back to a relaxed Dean and staying there. Making sure he told the truth, the latter realised.

He shook his head. “Not yet, no.” Dean paused deliberately, eyeing the other man curiously. “Know anything that might help?” A beat of silent staring passed, and this time Dean pushed, quietly. “He was having nightmares, right?”

Jason released a deep breath, dropping his gaze to the table. The stony mask that had initially been in place was all but gone now, leaving nothing but a lonely guy who’d unexpectedly lost a friend. It made him look younger, despite the impressive height and bulk, and Dean sympathised with the kid, hating that they couldn’t always give proper answers for the shit that happened to people.

“Nick doesn’t have nightmares,” Jason muttered to the table. He gave a short bitter laugh. “Idiot never freaked out about anything, and then suddenly he can’t fucking sleep at night ‘cause of some stupid dreams.” He did look up then, glaring at Dean almost daringly. “You try to tell me that’s some shit-faced symptom for a chronic disease…” he trailed off, half-threateningly; but the bigger half due to whatever anger had spurred that on seemed to die out, and Dean was left dealing with a tired 21-year-old dealing with something he didn’t want to. _Shouldn’t have to_ , Dean silently added, pissed as hell at the thing behind this.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” he said after a moment, meeting Jason’s gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t really know what we’re dealing with here, or what the nightmares have got to do with anything, but we will find answers.” He hesitated then, but Jason’s expression was going back to that cold one as he prepared to throw some snarky comment at Dean made him add on with a small regretful, dark smile, “Yeah, I know – it’s not going to bring him back, it’s not gonna change anything. And I’m sorry for that. But… we’re going to make sure this doesn’t happen to _anyone_ else.”

Jason seemed to muse over that and he nodded wearily, slumping back in his seat. “Alright. Yeah, okay. What do you need to know?”

Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw thoughtfully. “Was Nick in a… life-threatening situation recently? Close call, almost didn’t make it?” he queried, repeating the Saurens’ words and forcefully shutting his mind when it started replaying Sam’s death to him, uninvited. _Not now, dammit._

This time, a brief flash of remembered fear flickered across the college-boy’s features before he switched his gaze away again, staring almost blankly at the silent TV across the room. Dean’s own eyes followed it to the picture beside the television – a framed photo of a group of four laughing guys, a beach behind them. Dean could make out Jason and Nick in the middle, the other two obviously their friends. His lips twitched, suddenly bittersweet – it reminded him of the few pictures he’d seen of Sam’s time at Stanford. Most had gone up in flames, but there were a couple left over, no doubt lying around at the bottom of Sam’s duffel bag.

Jason’s voice snapped his eyes and almost undivided attention back to him. The other part of said attention was transfixed, as always, on Sam – who was leaning against the doorway. His expression told Dean he’d found about as much here as he had at the Saurens’. In other words, _nada_.

“Nick got… hit by a truck, couple months back,” Jason said. His tone was almost casual, but the nearly glazed-over look that darkened his eyes told Dean that he was as much in that undeniably horrible moment as he was sitting right there. “Guy didn’t see him crossing the street. He was a mess, he-“ He swallowed hard, clenching his jaw and hands. “It was all touch and go for a while. He’d been about to go visit his folks up in Iowa the day after the accident.” He lapsed into silence, slowly uncurling his fingers from the tight clench.

Dean winced slightly. “Must’ve been tough,” he said, tone low. Truck accidents were something else he could relate to, _another_ death that was his fault. He mentally growled at his mind to shut the hell up.

Jason didn’t seem to pay him any attention, lost in his own thoughts. And Dean took that as his cue to leave.

He’d definitely gathered some helpful information. And he’ll be damned if he let another person here to lose someone who they’d already almost lost once. 

* * *

The ride back to the motel was a solemn one. Sam's initial attempt at asking what Dean thought of the intriguing bit of information they now had was met with a silent shrug, and Dean's eyes never left the road. Sam sighed but didn't pursue the matter; if his brother didn't want to discuss it now, pushing him to wouldn't help anyone.

When they reached their motel room, Dean parked in the usual spot and turned off the engine, but otherwise didn't move. Sam turned to look at him, eyebrows furrowing in concern at how out-of-it his usually tough older brother looked. He hesitated, about to query if he was alright, but Dean beat him to it.

He glanced across at Sam. "I know why it came after you."

Sam blinked, slightly startled by the direct claim. He shifted, facing his brother completely. It was clear that Dean was reluctant to re-enter the room, and Sam couldn't blame him. "Yeah? Why?" he asked, keeping his voice devoid of anything but curiosity. He had an inkling of an idea, but he was puzzled at how Dean had said it - a sort of emphasis on the 'you'.

Dean's jaw worked for a moment, his gaze sliding away from his brother's intense eyes. "It's going after people who've... nearly died... right?"

Sam frowned. "But I _did_ \- I mean, why..." He hesitated. "What about you?"

The other Winchester snorted softly, lips quirking up in a sarcastic smile. "Yeah, I thought of that. Guess the thing figured I'm dying anyway, what's a few more months gonna hurt?" He either subtly ignored, or didn't notice, Sam's flinch. Knowing how attuned Dean was to anything little-brother-related, it was most likely the former.

"So it doesn't like the fact that people got a second chance to _live_ when they should have died?" Sam said thoughtfully, summing up his thoughts. This time, Dean's jaw clenched and his eyes blazed for a moment as his gaze flicked to his brother - his own equivalent of a wince. Sam frowned, backtracking carefully. "I didn't mean... Dean-"

"Yeah, I know." Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel subconsciously, silent in thought. "We'll have to make sure it doesn't go after anyone tonight - unless we find out what it is and stop it before it can choose the next victim."

Sam blinked at the sudden change, but nodded slowly. "All right. So we exchange notes with Bobby, see what we can find... and if there's nothing useful then we search for anyone else in town who... you know."

Dean seemed to relax a bit at having something to focus on. He sat up, glanced at the time. "Okay, so we've still got a good few hours 'til dark and as far as we know, that's the only time it's attacked."

"Dean, wait," said Sam, a little forcefully. Dean turned to him with a quirked eyebrow. "Listen, what I said - before - I didn't... I don't... blame you, Dean, okay?" Sam watched apprehensively as Dean's expression smoothed out - no; it more _iced_ over, becoming so falsely blank that it hurt a bit to see.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean said roughly, opening his door and sliding out of the car. "We're good."

 _We're so not good_ , Sam thought somewhat miserably. He absently fingered the amulet lying solidly on his chest. A part of his mind paused every time he looked at his brother now, because Dean without his amulet was just... _weird_. It felt wrong and unnatural and if there was another way he could be visible to Dean, Sam would take it and gladly return the amulet to his brother. It's not like he'd never worn it before - hospitals always took off personal accessories and Sam would be damned if something happened to Dean's things because he was unconscious from injury - so he'd either pocket it or wear it himself for safe-keeping.

But this was so different, so _not normal_ and the situation was fucked up at best. It wasn't just the amulet and Sam's position as a _victim_ here... but they were both spiralling out of control and the only reason they _weren't_ at each other's necks throwing accusations like wildfire was because the situation was too dire for that. They had to shove other concerns out of the way and get securely into _hunter mode_. People's lives depended on it.

Sam's included. The icing on top of this messy slice of cake.

A sudden knock on his window made Sam start and look up.

"You done?" said Dean impatiently, eyebrow cocked. He had his phone in one hand and Sam wondered if he had already called Bobby so fast.

Not wanting to add more fuel to his brother's flickering flame, Sam shrugged and got out. He nodded at the motel. "We going in, or...?"

"I'll, uh, call Bobby now," Dean said instead of answering, gaze sliding away as he paced away a few steps. "There's that library just down the street, we can head up there for some research if he's got nothing, then check around town-"

"Whoa, Dean - wait a sec," Sam interrupted, holding up his hands to slow his brother down. Dean stopped and looked at him, tone irritable with his " _What now_?"

Sam ignored his edginess and calmly took a step forward, being careful not to crowd in on him. "Dean, you're getting restless. Just- slow down a bit, take a breath. One thing at a time, man."

Dean shot him a look, turning to face him completely and spreading his arms out. "What does it look like, I'm having a freaking panic attack?" he demanded, before shaking his head and dropping his arms back to his sides. "How many times do you want me to say it, Sam? _I'm good_ , okay? Now we can focus here and agree on something to do, preferably sometime _before_ tonight?"

Exasperated didn't even begin to describe how Sam felt then - throw in _worried_ and _pissed_ and _annoyed_ , it might be a start - but he huffed and let it go. Because with Dean like this, there was hardly anything else he could do.

" _Fine_." He leaned back against the Impala, pensive. "Go ahead, call Bobby."

Dean made a mocking expression that set a scowl on his younger brother's face.

_God, I can't wait for this to be over._

**x-x-x**

 

Dean stared down the silent street, counting rings and ignoring Sam's gaze until Bobby picked up.

" _Dean_."

"Bobby, hey."

" _I'm guessing you boys found somethin' else?_ "

"Aw, Bobby, you know us too well."

" _So?_ "

"Right. We, uh, interviewed the families." Dean found himself striding back, leaning back on his baby next to his brother. "Found out something else they all had in common."

" _Should be helpful - the bit of info we had before ain't much to go on. Thing could've been any one of about a hundred things just going off that, though what you said about the nightmares got me thinkin' it might be some form of Shadewalker._ "

Dean frowned; he wasn't all too familiar on their lore. "Yeah? Could be, I don't know - but we figured out it's MO. Each victim has had some sort of near-death experience recently - car crashes, comas..." _Being stabbed to death then brought back._ "Guess the nightmares it made them have must've been replays of those."

Sam stiffened beside him and Dean looked at him, eyes questioning. But Sam kept staring hard at the ground, deep furrow between his eyebrows and stance rigid.

Bobby was speaking again. " _Huh. Well, that might just do the job and narrow it down. A monster after people who've escaped death?_ "

"Sounds about right."

" _All right. I'll hit the books then, see what I can dig up. How's Sam doing?_ "

Dean glanced at his brother again. He frowned this time at the lack of response and that troubled zoned-out look on his face. "Pretty good, considering," he told Bobby.

" _Right. Better than you, I'm guessin'?_ " Bobby's voice was a bit too knowing for Dean's liking. He scowled.

"I'm fine, Sam's fine. We're all good. Call me when you find something." He cut the line, pocketing the phone. Dean turned to his brother then, waving a hand in front of his face. "Sam? You in there?"

Sam blinked once and Dean watched as his focus seemed to slowly come back to reality. His eyes cleared and he lifted his gaze, looking confused. "Dean?"

"No, his evil twin," Dean deadpanned. His frown deepened in concern when Sam's only reaction was another dazed blink and a lost look around as if wondering what he was doing there. "Dude, the hell did you zone off to?"

"I, uh... I dunno... Why're we..." Sam shook his head, rubbing a hand across his face. When he looked back at Dean, his expression was clearer. "What did Bobby say?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Nothin', he's looking into it." He eyed his brother cautiously when Sam's gaze slipped away again and he seemed to be having an internal battle. "Sam." He snapped his fingers, jerking Sam's focus back to him, wide-eyed. "Okay, seriously, dude. What the _hell_ is going on with you?" Dean snapped, the rising worry and pressure of some time-limit in his mind making his tone sharp.

Sam sucked in a breath. "I don't..." He wavered and squeezed his eyes shut, reaching out blindly to grab the nearest object - Dean's jacket - as his legs gave out.

" _Whoa_ , shit - _Sam_?" Dean went down with him, grabbing his brother by the forearms quickly to stop him from hitting the ground. Sam was breathing hard now, curling in on himself, shifting his death-grip to Dean's arm instead. "What's happening, what is it?"

"Dean-" Sam groaned and Dean bent down closer to hear his next mumbled words, leaning almost forehead to forehead with his brother. " _Pulling... De- I can't--_ "

 _Pulling, what's pulling?_ Frustration joined the chaos in Dean's mind but he worked to shut it down and focus on this. "Okay, it's okay Sammy, just- breathe. Hey, hey, don't do that, look at me," he added sharply when Sam's eyes started sliding shut.

Reacting out of instinct at his big brother's tone, Sam forced his eyes open and painstakingly raised them to his brother's own wide pair. He looked like he was fighting off unconsciousness, which was _bad_ \- not least because Sam hadn't felt tired or hurt or _anything_ in this form so _what the hell..._

Dean kept up a litany of steady words - "Good, that's good, just keep your eyes on me and stay awake, okay? We'll figure this out _._ " - until he noticed Sam grabbing almost desperately at the amulet, at the cord, like it was suffocating him. Alarmed, Dean carefully pried his fingers away and lifted the object off of Sam's chest. "Sam? Is it this, is it hurting you?" God, he hoped not, but what else would he...

"It's _-_ it'stryin' _-_ " Sam grit out through clenched teeth, raising his now free hand to clutch at his head as his eyes squinted against a strain Dean couldn't see. "To _... pullmeback- gah_ ," he ended in a low moan. Dean's arm was going numb from the lack of circulation due to Sam's grip. He barely noticed though, mind on Sam's words instead. It was trying to pull him back - Dean guessed the amulet must have been stopping that, acting like an anchor for a ship resisting the pull of deadly strong currents.

And this ship was going to start to crack and splinter from the strain.

Dean cursed at the helplessness coursing over him. He didn't know how to fight this thing or how to help Sam fight it, didn't even know what it _was_ yet, and just what the hell were they supposed to do? A strong part of him wanted to tear the amulet off his brother for the obvious position of pain it was causing him to be in, but not only was the amulet the reason _for_ the pain, it was also the anchor _against_ the force causing it.

And if Sam took it off he could disappear into that _no man's land_ ofnightmares again – and who was to say he'd get out this time?

As it was, though, Dean wasn't forced into choosing a course of action that he may or may not regret later - because as suddenly as it had started... it stopped.

Sam swore with a deep exhale as he relaxed suddenly against Dean who, alarmed, instantly lowered himself to prop his brother up more comfortably and frantically scanned Sam's half-shut eyes. "Sammy? You okay?"

A second of silence passed before Sam blinked his eyes open all the way and the brothers stared at each other, the shocking after-effects of the little episode still crashing like waves over them.

"Yeah." Sam cleared his throat, sitting up and shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, I'm... it's gone."

 _For now_.

Dean huffed out a short disbelieving laugh. "Well, damn, Sammy. This thing _really_ has it out for you."

"And somehow I doubt that'll be its last attempt at getting me. Or worst," Sam added grimly, gingerly pulling at the leathery thread around his neck.

Dean just looked at him. Then he rolled his eyes with a sarcastic mutter of, "Well, _thank you_ , Little Miss Sunshine. Such a relief to have an optimist on the team."

Sam laughed at that, and Dean felt the slamming in his chest ease up from the earlier panic. Hell hadn't frozen over yet, and Sam wasn't going _anywhere_ without him anytime soon.

* * *

If there was one thing Dean desired with their lifestyle, it was having full control of how shit went down. It was an unfounded longing, but he couldn’t deny the fact that sometimes he just wished he could make everything stop and fix all their problems before they could continue multiplying by the dozens.

And his current situation was spiralling so fast in the opposite direction; it was making his head spin and his thoughts to mash up until he looked forward to this stupid _thing_ to be done with so he could go drown himself in alcohol at a bar.

But – as always – big brother roles came first, and he’d be damned if he ever put _anything_ before that. After all, he did only have a year to watch out for Sammy before he couldn’t any more. Might as well make the most of it, right?

Speaking of which, said brother had been worryingly silent ever since the ‘attack’. They were walking it to the library – considering Sam’s laptop probably needed a few repairs after Dean’s assault on the table back at the motel. Dean glanced at him sideways; not making it obvious seeing as there were people on the street and the last thing he needed was to be watched cautiously like he belonged at the loony bin for talking to thin air.

Sam’s walk was somewhat slouched, a crease between his eyebrows as he undoubtedly struggled against the pull that Dean figured hadn’t completely gone yet. His eyes were downcast as he trudged beside his brother, bangs shadowing them so Dean couldn’t get a good look at the turmoil that he knew was there.

Dean returned his gaze to the looming building they were heading to, chewing his lip. He remembered something Bobby had mentioned on the phone. “You know anything about Shadewalkers?” he asked quietly, flicking his eyes to Sam momentarily.

Sam looked up, this time frowning thoughtfully. “Not really... why?”

“Bobby mentioned it, he...” Dean trailed off as a passing man stared at him oddly. He reciprocated with a challenging glare that made the older man look away and hurry off. Huffing, Dean returned his attention to Sam, who was stifling a smirk. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Sam with all the innocence of a little brother. He grinned. “Just don’t talk so obviously, people might find out how crazy you are. Not a good image for Dean Winchester, right?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him, though it was damn good to hear Sam joking around amidst all this. “Great. It’s like Sam Wheat with his freaking attitude.” He rolled his eyes.

Sam snorted. “Dude, Swayze? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Swayze?” Dean threw back in mock-annoyance. He got an eye-roll in response, which teetered off as Sam’s step faltered and he winced, raising a hand to pull slightly at the amulet’s coil around his neck.

Dean’s eyes widened. _Shit, not here, not now._ “Sam?” He stopped, staring at his brother in unveiled concern.

“Yeah- ‘m... I’m good,” Sam gasped out, rubbing his forehead and squinting his eyes open. He breathed out and nodded, blinking a few times. “I’m fine. Wasn’t as bad as before.”

Dean shook his head, turning to stride up towards the library entrance before them with a muttered, “That son of a bitch.”

**-x-**

 

In the end, it took both the Winchesters’ and Bobby’s combined researching efforts to get down to the heart of the issue.

“So what you’re saying,” Dean said into his phone as he eyed his brother across the table warily. “Is that these Shadow Walkers cause nightmares and suck on the person’s soul from there.”

Sam made a face at the description.

Dean could almost hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “ _Basically. But what I’m not getting is the severity of the deaths here. They usually only feed for a night, maybe two, just enough to get their fill._ ”

“Well, you know us, we only attract the best,” Dean sniped, his tone weary.

Sam leaned forward, frowning at the book he was reading from. “But there are different types, aren’t there?” he asked. Dean repeated the question at the phone, which was lying on the table between them on speaker. It was a good thing no-one hung around in these areas in small-town libraries, or the brothers – well, Dean – would be getting an endless supply of weird looks. Not that it’d be anything new to them, but keeping a low profile was preferred.

“ _Well, there would be. I’ve only ever heard of Shadow Walkers from Indian lore around here and there’s not much that I could find on any others. Why, you got somethin’?”_

Sam pushed the book forward with an eagerness that Dean hadn’t seen in a while and he shifted closer to see what it was as his brother elaborated. “There’s Celtic lore on them too, though it has the Galician name – _Sombra Andador_ – though they mostly hang around in the Spanish areas. I guess one could’ve found its way up here, new feeding grounds maybe?”

Dean nodded, trailing a sentence with his finger. “This is pretty intense stuff – there’s Celtic lore, Bobby, says they feed off the despair and fear brought on by certain types of nightmares... What’s a _Morte Andador_ , then?”

Sam looked uneasy and hesitated. The question was answered quietly by Bobby. “ _Death Walker._ ” There was a pause as it sunk in. “ _Didn’t think they were around anymore, the Celts found ways to dispatch them early on – they were too chaotic, restless... fed on anyone they deemed unworthy of life. The Sombra Andadors don’t generally have a lasting effect, they feed off all the despair that they can get from a couple of nightmares and that’s usually enough for a while; leaves the person drained, but not dead. These guys, though..._ ”

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. “We saw what they do.” He stared at the book, the picture at the bottom catching his eye. It was obscure, a haze of shadows with twisted, grotesque faces immersed between them and an even darker figure in the middle, the darkness seeming to extend from it. His gaze shifted up to Sam, taking in the far-away darkened look in his hazel eyes and not liking it.

He cleared his throat, snapping Sam out of whatever dark reverie his freaky mind had taken him to and directing his words to Bobby. “Right. So how do we gank this Celtic bitch?”

“ _It’s not that easy, Dean._ ” There was the sound of rustling paper preceding Bobby’s next sombre words. “ _Shadewalkers can only be driven away by sheer willpower – they don’t have a physical being that can be killed. Unless there’s been a summoning, but those result in mass killings - target a whole group instead of individuals – and have only been successful a handful of times; those can be stopped by using a ritual of sorts to burn up the summoning space..._ ”

“Willpower should be able to drive away the Morte Andador too, though, shouldn’t it?” Sam asked, words leaking thoughtful curiosity. Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Willpower?” he directed to Bobby, feeling ridiculously like a parrot.

Bobby sighed before answering. “ _Theoretically, yes, strong enough willpower should be enough to fight it off. Don’t go gettin’ any stupid ideas though – it’s sited pretty damn strongly for the Shadewalkers but Death Walkers don’t exactly have the most reliable sources documenting them._ ”

“’Stupid ideas’, what _ideas_?” Dean stared his brother down suspiciously. He _definitely_ didn’t like that look, or the way he kept pulling gently at the amulet lying heavily against his chest. “Sam. What the hell are you thinking?”

Sam met his eyes. He seemed to deliberate his words before voicing them, no doubt not wanting to spike Dean’s overprotective tendencies into anger. _Righteous_ anger, Dean thought somewhat defensively. He was already apprehensive and Sam hadn’t even answered his question yet.

“I’m thinking,” his brother spoke carefully. “This Morte Andador’s pretty adamant to get me and the only thing that stops it from pulling me back into that... nightmare place... is _this_.” He lifted Dean’s amulet, high enough so he could gaze at it thoughtfully.

Dean frowned. He knew where this was going, and _hell no,_ he didn’t like it. But before he could voice his opinion, Sam hurried on.

“Look, man, just hear me out – say I take the amulet off and let it take me-“

“No, nope, don’t even go there. Sam wants to play bait, Bobby.”

“ _Idgit – what did I say about stupid ideas?_ ”

Dean nodded in hearty agreement. “Sammy, you’re not letting this _Death_ Walker pull you into nightmare wonderland.”

Sam’s eyebrows pulled together and he stared imploringly at his brother, adding in _that_ tone, “But if I can beat it... If I can resist the whole ‘despair and fear’ thing and _beat it_...”

“Oh, God,” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes and tilting his chair back. “He’s using the damn eyes, Bobby,” he said flatly.

Bobby snorted. “ _You’re both morons. Sam, that is one hell of a risky plan and you don’t know how many things can go wrong there. We can find something else._ ”

Sam huffed a bitter laugh. “Story of our lives, don’t you think?” He shrugged. “Look, it’s either trust me to do this, or let it keep trying to pull me back while we look for another way that might not even work.” He paused, shooting Dean a loaded look with shadowed eyes. “But if its attempts become stronger then we don’t know what my resisting could do.”

Dean was torn. He just wanted to _save Sam_. No catch. No extra heavy risks. He couldn’t watch his brother go through another mental violation like that other one, just stand by and _watch_. But it was clear that Sam refusing to go, letting the amulet anchor him here, it _hurt_. Dean could never stand by while his little brother was hurting and right now he had to choose between two options that could potentially hurt him some more.

Of course, the difference was that one would continue harming him, side effects unknown, and the other would offer Sam a fighting chance – though whether it would be _fair_ was a whole other question in itself.

It wasn’t a matter of trust. Dean trusted Sam to know what to do – the kid was stronger than _anyone_ he knew, his stubbornness sure to be enough willpower in itself. But the fact of matter remained that the stakes were high and unknowns in their field were never a good thing. _Especially_ if they were going head-on straight into the hunt.

So what was it? Search up another way to get rid of this _Morte Andador_ , with the danger of it mentally attacking Sam again meanwhile and having nothing to defend him with... Or trusting Sam to slip into his Death Walker-induced nightmares and crush it while resisting the depressing pull of overpowering emotions from relived memories that he most definitely would _not want_ to relive.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He chanced a glance at Sam. His brother was alternating glances between him and the book on the Celtic lore. Dean knew that if he told Sam not to do it, he wouldn’t; Sam’s unwavering trust in Dean to know the solution was sometimes suffocating. There was a constant pressure that he might make the wrong choice and that faithful belief – or worse, Sam’s _life_ – would be in jeopardy because of him.

Not that this uncertainty ever showed. Big bro’s always right, after all.

So he sat up, squared his shoulders before speaking. “All right, fine.” Sam looked up at him, eyes wide. Dean narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, the cautioning clear. “If you’re sure you can do this...”

“Do you think I can?” Sam returned immediately, _honestly_. There was no doubt in his expression, only that openly curious look that had been there since they were kids – been there whenever Sam wanted to know if he was capable of something, but couldn’t decide for himself because _Dean_ knew him better and was _always right_.

Dean shoved aside the emotion from that simple statement and instead threw his brother a cocky grin. “Well, you did learn from the best. Some Death Walker freak should be a piece of _cake_ , dude.”

Sam rolled his eyes, not quite hiding the smile that quirked his lips. “Egotistical jerk.”

“Nah, just stating the truth. Bobby agrees with me, right?”

The sarcasm was ever present in their friend’s voice. “ _Sure, if by ‘best’ you mean the cockiest idgit on the face of the planet. Sam’s ego should be damn fine._ ”

Dean took the jesting blow and grinned at his younger brother’s infectious laughter.

He just hoped they wouldn’t regret anything... there was more than enough lying heavily on their minds for now. 

* * *

“I still don’t like this, y’know.”

They were back at the motel, regardless of the uneasiness encompassing them within the room; though they tried to ignore it as best as they could. After all – as Dean had stated on their way back – if all went according to plan, Sam would be waking up in his body and it’ll all be good.

Not that things usually worked out the way they wanted, but Sam kept that thought to himself.

He stood opposite his brother at the end of Dean’s bed, gaze turning from the amulet to Dean. He hesitated. Once he took off the amulet, there was no knowing what would happen for certain. He could still feel the resistant pull, as if he was floating on a buoy against currents that wanted to just _pull him down_. Only this was a tad more terrifying, because once he let go he would be thrust into a world of darkness and nightmares that he couldn’t fight. The stuff that had been haunting his dreams for years, ones he had always relied on his brother to pull him out of.

Only this time, he had to face them alone.

“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” he said with a shrug.

Dean scowled. “Yeah, and that’s saying something.”

Sam looked at him helplessly. “It’s not that bad.” He wavered, a frown furrowing his eyebrows. “Right?”

Dean sighed and rolled his shoulders restlessly, turning to stare ‘round the half-trashed room. “Nah, man,” he eventually said. “It’s just that we don’t know a whole lot ‘bout these Death Walkers – I don’t like that you gotta go up against it without backup.”

The admission was somewhat reluctant, clearly because Dean didn’t want to admit out loud what had been on his mind the whole time. Like Sam hadn’t guessed. He knew his brother – knew how protective he was and how seriously he took his job to watch out for him. The deal had proved that more than anything else.

But as much as Sam _knew_ it, they weren’t words he wanted to hear now. “I don’t like this any more than you do, man,” he confessed, wishing he didn’t feel like it was his first hunt all over again, only this time he was going in blind and without his brother. “But Dean...”

As always, his brother seemed to pick up on his unspoken fear and doubt. Dean met his gaze forcefully, and this time any misgivings that had been there were effectively blocked, making those green eyes passive and sure. “Hey, listen to me. You listening?” His voice was hard, making sure that he had Sam’s undivided attention.

Sam nodded.

“You’re gonna face this son of a bitch, and you are _not_ gonna let it win. Use that damn stubbornness; beat it at its own game.” He let a small smirk touch his lips. “That is your specialty, right?”

Sam grinned, despite himself. “I’ll kick its ass,” he promised with certainty. He had to win. There was no alternative.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and nodded in agreement. “Damn straight. Nobody messes with that freaky mind of yours.” He shot his little brother a serious, weighted look. “You can do this, Sam.”

He got a smile in response. “Dean Winchester – master of pep talks since 2007.”

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “A lot longer than that, dude. Now go before I bust out the pom-poms and cheerleaders,” he added sarcastically.

Sam just laughed. His brother’s words had done the trick, vanished any reservations he had left and, before it gave way to the pre-emptive trepidation curling in his stomach, Sam lifted the heavy weight off his chest and slipped it off, dropping it quickly into Dean’s waiting hand. Meeting his brother’s eyes once again, he went for one last confident smile before the inevitable force hauled him back into the shadows.

* * *

_The panic was there, immediate. It slammed into him, stealing his breath, converging with the dread and terror and **oh God please no, please**..._

_But he couldn’t **do** anything, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t **help** – because last time it was all Dad, it was Dad’s sacrifice and Dad’s plan and it was Dad who saved Dean._

_Not him._

_And before that it had backfired and people had **died**._

_He couldn’t. Couldn’t save his brother, couldn’t **stop it all** without something going wrong and now Dean was there- he was... he was going to Hell and his deal was up and there were **hellhounds** -_

_“ **Dean! NO!** ”_

_It was red – **somuchred** – and his blood, Dean’s **blood** , was everywhere and his screams filled the air and they were **tearing into him** and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t._

_He ran. Shaking and stumbling, trying to block his brother’s cries, shouts, yells for **help, make it stop, no- please-**_

_And then it did._

_He slowed. He could almost hear his heart beating a fast solo in his chest, his rapid short breaths wheezing out, his uneven steps echoing in the sudden dark. He looked around, turned unsteadily, strained to hear – to **see**._

_He could still sense. He could feel the fear rolling off him in waves, the panic and disorder in his system from watching his brother being ripped to shreds._

_But..._

_“Not real. It’s **not real**.”_

_It was a thought he clung to – a man desperate to make it stop and go away. Now that he had stopped, he could almost think coherently. A plan. There was a plan. He had to..._

_Red flickered around him._

_...not get distracted..._

_It rose, flared to life._

_...ignore it, ignore the chaos – **not gonna let it win**._

_It was hot and everywhere now, surrounding him, suffocating him, and he could hear the sizzling and crackling of flames and- and screams... he could smell it... the thick smoke- the burning flesh, they bound him, blocked his senses until he knew no more than the evil of **fire**._

_And he wasn’t alone._

_The greedy flames pushed towards him, backing him up until he fell back, scrabbling desperately to get some purchase, to get away- but it never reached **him**._

_It went above him. And he followed it, unable to do anything but watch, morbid curiosity mixing with fear and dread because he **knew**. He knew what was coming, and he was on the ground, unable to **move** -_

_But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t Jess above him, cut, burning, screaming, **dying**._

_No..._

_“No.” He choked on the sob, the smoke and smell and fright – “ **No**...” _

_Because he’d relived this that horrific fateful night, had seen it all, nothing but an unwilling observer to the night he’d been changed... but now he couldn’t look away. She sprawled on the ceiling, immobile, a splitting image of his girlfriend’s end... Only it wasn’t._

_Because it was his mother._

_And the blood, **her blood** dripped down, that gash slicing her abdomen, the fire eating her up, her blood falling over him – droplet after droplet, onto his clothes, his face, his **mouth** -_

_And then all he could see of her was her face, frozen on that silent scream, eyes wide and terrified and yellow- no. No. It wasn’t._

_It was._

_Everything froze – the fire, the smoke, **him**. But her mouth curved up into a grotesque smirk, deformed on a half-burnt face, sparking a glint in horribly familiar yellow eyes. And he could taste the blood now, feel it coursing through him, poisoning him, **changing** him._

_“You were always my favourite, Sam...”_

_“ **Let me GO!** ” The rage was instantaneous. It fuelled him, let him launch to his feet and shove down the terror. It cleared his mind for a moment, just **one moment** where he knew what he had to do-_

_Before he was assaulted again._

_His resistance broke with the rapidity of the change. The attack was nothing if not effective- and he was on his knees before he knew it, broken moans of “no- don’t-“ breaking through, unable to get free._

_It was Mom and Jess, Dad and Dean... Madison, Ava, Jake, Andy... they wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t make them, he couldn’t **do anything...**_

_And then he was catching a body as it fell in front of him, dragging it into his arms as low cries teetered away into nothingness, choking on tears as he stared down at the face... slashed, bloody, lifeless... but he knew who it was... had dreamed – **dreaded** – this happening, and here it was, and he couldn’t stop it, any of it._

_“Dean...”_  

**... ...**

_He stayed there, curled over his brother’s broken body, not knowing anything else, not caring. The only thing that existed was how lifeless Dean felt, how his warm blood seeped onto Sam, his stark white skin shockingly contrasting the dark around them... and Sam continued to murmur denials he was hardly even aware of._

_“Nonono, no, Dean, c’mon, don’t- you can’t, Dean, **no**...”_

_But then finely-honed hunter’s instinct had him drawing back, the hair at the back of his neck rising in warning of the incoming danger – and he straightened suddenly, remembering. His breath came out faster and he blinked rapidly, staring around as if coming to from the midst of a hazy dream._

_Awareness crashed in with reality and the sorrow gave way like dirt under a bulldozer._

_“It’s not real. **It’s – not – real**.” Two deep steadying breaths later had him looking around with renewed sense. _

_He was alone. Again._

_Only this time, there was no running. No panic and fear. This time, he was aware._

_“Alright,” he breathed, fists clenched. “Where are you hiding, huh?”_

_Diversions, that’s all they were. Because it knew he was after it and it wanted him out before he had his chance._

_No way in hell was he letting it win._

_“Come on!” he yelled out, anger turning his tone into a fierce growl, his stance into that of a dangerous predator._

_He didn’t flinch when the darkness grew blacker and wrapped itself around him. Didn’t let panic override his system again. Didn’t give it a chance._

_“ **You can’t defeat me**.” Its voice surrounded him, trapping and blocking everything._

_“Try me,” he challenged, Dean’s words a buffer of strength in his mind – “_ You’re gonna face this son of a bitch, and you are _not_ gonna let it win.” _An anchor he wouldn’t let go of or let it touch._

_“ **Foolish... I know your deepest sorrows, Sam Winchester. I know your darkest fears and regrets.** ” It pressed in closer, threatening to choke out his willpower and crush him under its strength. “ **I can make you live them over and over until there is nothing left but a shell of a broken spirit.** ”_

_“Think I got that memo already.” He stood strong, will unbending, until the force seemed to retreat._

_He had no time to think. It thrust him hard into the open road and let the barrage of sudden knowledge swarm his mind and overtake the confusion._

_Not just a road._

_A **crossroads**. _

_“Oh God.”_

_He swivelled and sought out the familiar figure he knew would be there. Reached out a hand, took a step forward, a warning cry on his lips of “ **don’t do it** ”... but it was pointless._

_Dean’s shattered, broken expression struck something hard deep in his chest. He could do nothing but watch, horrified with the knowledge of what this would bring, as his brother dug into the ground and buried a small box._

_“Dammit, Dean...”_

_He didn’t want to see this. Not his brother willingly giving up his life, his **soul** ; bargaining for a ten-year deal... and ending up with one._

“How long did you get?” ... “One year. I got one year.”

_Those green eyes were dead and hard, dim under that deadly glare fixated on the demon._

_His eyes burned as he watched, unable to stop it, growing numb as he watched the resolute determination in his brother. All that to save him. To watch out for him._

_“God damn it,” he whispered. A lone tear trailed down his face. **For him**. Dean’s soul... “You son of a bitch...”_

_He was sinking to his knees before he knew it. Misery filled his entire being as the scene swam before his eyes. Hopelessness followed close by until he had to shut his eyes against it all, wrap shaking arms around himself as if to hold together the pieces he could feel breaking inside._

_“Not worth it, Dean...”_

_So racked up in the bleakness of the harsh reality, he didn’t notice anything else. Didn’t feel the blind pressure until he started to slip away, fade and float at the same time. The surrealism had his eyes snapping open and a startled curse to slip past shocked lips._

_It... he felt it... **feeding**. Drinking off the waves of his despondence. Sucking him dry from the inside out._

_“No- no, no you’re not- not getting me-“ he choked out, not looking up, afraid to see anything else that would shatter him completely._

_It lingered around him still – he felt it and curled in on himself some more, protecting, preserving, trying to regain control. He couldn’t let it **win** , dammit!_

_“ **I already have you** ,” it mocked. “ **You should not be alive... Should have died and stayed that way... But fate is too good for you, isn’t it?** ”_

_He swallowed, breathed out harshly, growled, “Get away from me, you freak.”_

_The word echoed around him... **freak** freakfreak... demon blood spiked hot through his veins, sinister yellow eyes flashing before him with a sneering grin, plans and destinies, **killer** -_

_“Stop it,” the low moan escaped before he could reign it in. “Just **stop**.”_

_“ **But that’s what you are... what you fear, that dark piece of you that you have no control over. Demon blood from the one demon who killed everyone you loved. Ironic, isn’t it?** ”_

_And he saw John, eyes flashing from yellow to brown, ordering him to “ **Shoot me in the heart! Do it, now!** ” But he didn’t. Couldn’t. And what difference did it make anyway... demon got him in the end... Got Dad in exchange for Dean._

_“No...” Shaky breaths slowly strengthened, his voice along with it. “No. Not everyone.” He shut his eyes tight, reached deep inside of him, reached out for his brother who was **always** there. His voice held a tremor of emotion that only strengthened his resolve. “He didn’t get Dean. I’ve got Dean.” Found him, let image after image barrage his mind; Dean teasing, laughing, singing, driving, patching him up and watching out for him, Dean **being there**. “I’ve still got Dean.”_

_And, like a crack in ice, its hold on him slipped more, the crack deepened and lengthened, trickles of water leaking through while it strived to hold on. “ **But you won’t always have him. Less than a year left** -“_

_“To save him.” He latched on to the sound of his brother’s voice in his ears – “_ You can do this, Sam.” _Held on tight and blocked everything out, forced it away with all the pain it had wrought. “I’m gonna save him...” Its slipping hold turned to barely hanging on, trickles to gushing streams. “And I’m gonna kick your ass.”_

_The strength of his resolve too much for it to fight against, its grip slackened and let go completely; a horrible high screech of white-noise filled him as it burst away into pure, bright, light. Crying out in pain, he clasped hands against his ears, eyes screwed tightly shut in a foregone attempt to shut it out, until it became too much... and he fell away._

* * *

He came to with a gasp and a sudden jerk that almost had him falling out the bed. Sam leaned on his arm, heaving breaths shaking him, and stared around with wide shock-filled eyes. He was in a motel room... one that looked like an earthquake had broken up half of it. A quick glance outside the window to the clearly setting sun had him sitting up and swinging his legs over in surprise.

 _Sunset_? What the hell...

Before he could try to figure out why he’d slept through the whole day when he distinctly remembered going to bed at a normal time last night ( _shit, had it even been last night?_ ), the sound of running water from the bathroom caught his attention. Sam got to his feet, startled at how unsteady he felt and grabbing on to the bedside table to hold himself up, before turning his stare to the partially-opened door that stood between him and his brother – who surely had some answers.

The jumble of questions that were tumbling around his mind came to a skidding halt when the door opened to allow Dean out and into the motel room – only for him to freeze abruptly when his eyes latched onto a very lost Sam.

“Dean?” he said uncertainly, letting go of the table to test his legs.

Dean stared back, eyes uncharacteristically wide on a pale face, freckles standing out against the stark skin, before a stunned “Sam?” tumbled out of his mouth and he started forward, walking as if in a daze.

Sam took an unsteady step forward only to stop when – in a disturbingly déjà-vu moment that scared the wits out of the younger Winchester – his brother reached him and, without a word, wrapped both arms around him and held on like they’d been separated for a year. Sam hesitantly hugged him back, feeling that familiar, comforting sense of being grounded that his big brother had induced ever since they’d been young. He swallowed against the heat in his throat when they pulled back and he got a glimpse of his brother’s face, feeling anxious all over again.

“Dean,” he started cautiously, aware of the puzzled narrowing of his brother’s eyes but not knowing why. “What’s... What happened?”

Dean’s eyebrows rose and he gaped at Sam. “What do you mean-“ He broke off at the totally lost look from his brother and half-turned away, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Shit, Sammy. You don’t remember?”

Sam shook his head slowly, feeling tendrils of panic creep into his system. Definite déjà-vu moment. And not one he’d ever wanted to relive again. “Don’t remember _what_? Dean?” he asked, sounding like he used to when he was younger and seeking reassurance from a big brother who could make everything right.

Dean cursed softly again and eyed him warily. “How’re you feeling?”

Blinking at the abrupt change in subject, he frowned. “Fine, I guess. Bit tired, but that’s all.” He fixed his brother with a pointedly hard look. “Dean, seriously. _What happened_?”

“Okay, all right, calm down. And sit before you collapse, man.”

Sam did as he was told, his demanding stare unwavering.

Dean blew out a breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, perched on the bed next to him. He glanced at his little brother then turned his gaze forward, and his voice was dead solemn and low when he spoke, his words chilling Sam to the bone with their bleakness.

“You almost died, Sammy.”

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

_'cause we’re living at the mercy_  
_of the pain and the fear_  
_until we dead it, forget it  
_ _let it all disappear_

* * *

 

Time was a funny thing. It was fluid, sometimes running rapid and unrelenting, other times shifting by too slowly... But either way, it was a tricky thing to keep track of.

Even trickier to control, to _manage_.

It was a fool who thought definitely that he could direct time exactly the way he wanted it, use what he needed and throw away spare minutes, hours, days – all of which could end up being the only thing that could have saved him from anything.

Sam Winchester was no fool.

If there was anything that he had learnt from the past two years on the road with his brother, it was that nothing was to be taken for granted. Life, for example. Perhaps the biggest example. And with it, _time_. Nothing was guaranteed and the difference between a life saved or taken could be mere milliseconds. Precious micro moments could save someone the pain of heartache, loss, defeat.

He also learnt that, alongside those, nothing was permanent. No _body_ was permanent. No matter how indestructible they may seem, no matter how tough and trained... no matter who was there for them, it made no difference.

Their dad had been harsh proof of that.

And, even though Sam refused to accept it until – _if_ – it actually happened, neither was Dean. His brother’s many near-deaths had weighed on his mind and now he was less than a year away from certain, _promised_ death.

Less than a year before the deal ended. Less than a year for Sam to find a way to save him. Less than a year... and he didn’t want to waste a _second_ of it.

Let alone almost a whole day.

Sam sat, slouched, in the Impala’s passenger seat and stared out at the side mirror. The Chevy ate up the miles on the freeway to leave the town way behind them, letting the freedom of an open road and unknown destination course against her black shell and through her interior, embracing the musing brothers in a rush of cool wind that ruffled their hair and mixing in with Brian Johnson’s singing about being on the highway to hell.

Sam had an urge to punch the cassette player until it shut up. He was distracted from the thought when Dean glanced at him and said, “So let me get this straight.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and shifted to face him.

“I tell you that some Celtic freakazoid Death Walker invaded your mind and fully violated your nightmares to kill you – plus you were in ghost form – and the thing you’re pissed at the most is that, what, you lost half a day?”

Sometimes, Sam wondered whether his brother just pretended not to know things, because there was no _way_ that he couldn’t guess for himself why Sam _was_ pissed at that detail.

“Is ‘yes’ a straight enough answer?” he replied with a tired sigh, letting his gaze wander from a frowning Dean to the scenery passing them by.

“What, that’s it?” He shot Sam a look then elaborated when he got a puzzled glance in return. “The fact that you, y’know, practically got, uh, sucked dry by being bombarded with reruns of Life’s Shittiest Moments in your sleep – that doesn’t bother you?” The incredulous tone made Sam scowl in restrained frustration.

“Of course it _bothers_ me, just not as much as not being awake for all that time.”

“Why-“

“Dammit, Dean – I lost _hours_ there!” Sam exploded, back pressing uncomfortably hard against the corner between his door and seat as he turned to his brother with a glare.

Dean’s frown deepened as clouded eyes shifted between Sam and the road. “Yeah, I’m getting that, man, but...”

“ _Hours_. That’s time that I could’ve... could’ve spent researching, looking for _something_ -“

“Sam,” Dean’s voice was low and a little bit dangerous. “We’ve been through this.” He looked once at Sam’s stubborn, unyielding expression and, without a word, slowed the car down to park on the side of the road. He shut off the engine just as Sam pushed his door open and stormed out, slamming it shut with more force than was necessary as he rounded the car to the front; leaning back against the hood, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Dean watched him, bottom lip rolling between his teeth, before he followed suit in a calmer manner and moved to lean against his baby beside his silently fuming brother.

“You can’t try to break the deal, man,” Dean said quietly, eyes staring out at the empty freeway but seeing instead an open crossroads and the red of the demon’s eyes. “If they find out... you die.” His voice was flat, carefully devoid of the brokenness that thought provoked inside him.

Sam turned shattered eyes that sparkled with unshed tears towards him. “And if I don’t, then _you_ die.” He took a shaky breath. “I can’t, Dean. I can’t just...”

“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes trailing down to the rough gravel, unable to meet his brother’s.

“I don’t want to... waste time that could’ve... helped, y’know?” Sam added hesitantly, like he was trying to piece together his thoughts to make Dean understand. “We don’t know what’s gonna happen, and if...”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere yet, Sammy.”

Sam huffed out a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears and shook his head, turning his face away. “Don’t, Dean,” he said quietly. “Don’t say something you can’t guarantee.”

Dean swallowed at his little brother’s broken tone. He glanced at him sideways, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Hey.” He let a grin tug up the corner of his lips as Sam looked at him, his kicked-puppy expression firmly in place. “Ain’t no sucker getting a piece of this sweet ass unless I let ‘em, you hear me?”

He held his brother’s eyes for that moment, letting down barriers in a rare show of pure, raw, honesty, and his grin widened just a fraction when Sam’s own lips twitched and the pain in his hazel eyes eased up just a little bit. “I hear you,” he said softly.

Dean nodded, pushing off the hood, hands in his pockets. “I got your back for now, man. Just remember that.”

Sam nodded once and smiled, then chuckled, earning a puzzled look from his brother. He shot Dean an amused smirk. “Such a girl.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Samantha,” Dean grumbled good-naturedly. He rolled his eyes as his brother snickered and they made their ways back to their respective places in the car, doors shutting in unison. The air wasn’t completely cleared between them, and the pain wasn’t completely gone from either brother’s hearts, but for now, they were good. They had each other’s backs. They made a formidable force against all supernatural bastards...

They had a long road and a year ahead of them. And neither was willing to waste a moment of it.

* * *

 

**THE END.**

**_(waiting for the end to come ... wishing I had strength to stand ... this is not what I had planned ... it's out of my control)_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> *pats the fic fondly* writing spn never let me down
> 
> lyrics from LP's song "Waiting for the End" (...i think that's what it's called?)
> 
> i miss old-times supernatural. everything was so simple.


End file.
